72 Hours in the Dark
by Nomad1
Summary: Not many people are a cause for concern if they don't turn up to a meeting at 6:30am. Not many people are Leo McGarry.
1. I

** 72 Hours in the Dark **

By Nomad  
January 2002

**Spoilers**: I'd say anything up to the end of season two is fair game. Which is not to say this ignores season three, but to a certain extent it could be set almost anywhen.  
**Disclaimer**: Aaron Sorkin owns the West Wing and almost all of the people in this fic. As if that wasn't enough, he also owns the entire country of Qumar, but I'm borrowing it as an extremely handy place to set some turmoil without getting any nuclear missles pointed my way.

* * *

** I **

Josh sloped into the office, slurping coffee before it could overflow and burn his fingers. "What's eating Margaret?" he asked of no one in particular.

"Probably another muffin crisis," observed Toby, not looking up from his papers.

"Muffin crisis?" frowned Sam blankly.

"Calorie count," Toby elaborated. "The mess got it wrong. Support staff proceded to crash the entire US government e-mail system."

CJ peered at him over the top of her glasses. "The calorie count in the muffins is wrong?"

"Allegedly."

"Yeah; you wanna be careful with those wild accusations there, CJ," Josh advised. "You don't want that Pillsbury dough boy on your back."

Sam blinked. "Does the dough boy actually make, you know, muffins?"

"I don't think he does the actual baking himself, Sam," Josh pointed out.

"No," he agreed. "Those industrial strength ovens they have... probably doesn't want to get too close to those."

"Or those energy-beam thingies they have in _Ghostbusters_."

"That was the Staypuft Marshmallow man, Josh."

"Sometimes I get confused."

CJ sat up and frowned, glancing at the clock. "Where's Leo? It's not like him to be this late."

"He's not in with the President, is he?" frowned Sam.

"This early? The President? I doubt it." Josh shook his head. "Besides, there's nothing that urgent going down at the moment."

"That we knew of. Last night."

"And now you're bringing me down."

Margaret suddenly appeared in the doorway. Now they all took in the lines of worry, never fully absent from her face but today seeming stronger than ever. "Margaret, what's wrong?" asked CJ. "Where's Leo?"

"I don't know," she said, sounding flustered.

"You don't know what's wrong, or-"

"I don't know where Leo is. He didn't turn up for work this morning."

_That_ unexpected statement pulled even Toby's nose out of his papers. The senior staff exchanged suddenly uneasy glances.

"Maybe he slept- and he's Leo, so no," Josh cut himself off. "Maybe he's sick. Did you try calling him at home?"

Margaret nodded urgently. "And his cell. And the fax. And-"

"Okay, okay," Josh calmed her. "He's probably just got the flu or something. Even Leo can catch the flu." But his crinkled forehead belied the casual tone. None of them could remember Leo ever taking a sick-day before. And all of them in the room were sharing the same secret thought, though most of them would have died before admitting it.

_Did he go out and get drunk last night?_

"Tell you what," said Josh, standing up. "I'll swing by his apartment, make sure he's okay. We can-"

"Josh," CJ chided him, interrupting.

"What?"

"You can't go. We can't have _both_ Chiefs of Staff missing in action. If Leo's sick, we need you here."

Josh seemed momentarily thrown off balance, knowing she was right but wanting to go anyway. "Um. Yeah. Okay, then-"

"I'll go," interjected Margaret quickly. Josh spun around, having half-forgotten her presence.

"Okay. Yeah. Good. Margaret can go. You know where he lives?" Margaret gave him a look she normally reserved only for Leo. As if Leo could do _anything_ without Margaret being aware of it. Josh remained unflustered, being used to getting very similar looks from Donna. "Okay. Good."

Margaret exited quickly, and the four of them were left sitting around uselessly. "Uh... what now?" asked Josh vaguely.

CJ gave him a look. "I think you'll find you're in charge."

"I am? I am," he repeated firmly. "So. Um. CJ. What are you doing today?"

"Briefing the Press?" she said, raising an eyebrow pointedly. Josh nodded quickly.

"Good, uh, you do that. Sam?"

"Still working on the Goodman thing," he supplied quickly.

"Okay. And... Toby?"

"Praying for the speedy return of Leo, so we can get something done around here. Also writing."

"Okay. Senior staff over. Everybody go... do whatever the hell it is you do."

As they left the room, Sam clapped him reassuringly on the shoulder.

"You could hardly tell the difference," he smiled.

* * *

Margaret made her way hurriedly through the DC streets. She was used to speed-walking through the West Wing, but her shoes weren't really made for distance travel. It was quite a decent-length walk to Leo's new apartment, although she knew her boss made it every day - over her frequent protests.

_Oh, God, he got hit by a car 'cause he was too tired to pay attention. He got mugged. He had a heart attack from all that walking._ Sometimes she wished she could find a way to never let him out of her sight at all.

When Leo had finally taken an apartment, she hadn't been able to decide whether to be pleased or worried. Getting out of the hotel signified he'd moved on from the separation with Jenny, didn't it? But on the other hand, it meant he was all alone up there.

_I should've called more. I should've got somebody to drive him home every night. I should've insisted he get a... maid or something._

Not that Leo would've listened to her. But she should've insisted anyway.

Leo McGarry was the White House Chief of Staff; common sense dictated that he'd be able to look after himself. Experience said otherwise. It wasn't that he was a goofball like Josh or hopelessly inept like Sam; it just never seemed to occur to him to factor his own needs into anything. Margaret was convinced he would never go home at all if she didn't guilt him into it.

_Oh, this is all my fault. If I didn't push him into spending more time at home he would have fallen asleep at the office and nothing would have happened to him._

Margaret tried to force herself to breathe normally. _Pay no attention to the panicking redhead. Just a slight case of guilt-overload. Nothing to see here._ She was sure she was going to get to Leo's apartment and find him perfectly fine... except, well, he was Leo.

If Leo had a hundred and ten degree fever, he'd go to work. If he got locked inside his apartment, he'd climb out of the window and go to work. If Godzilla had landed on the US coast and started rampaging through Washington DC, he'd step around the giant footprints and fallen power lines, and then go to work. And then mutter to Margaret about 'goddamn giant lizards in the middle of the high street' as if it was her fault.

He was Leo McGarry, she was his secretary, and this was the way it worked.

In fact, she could only think of only two reasons why Leo wouldn't turn up to a six-thirty staff meeting, and she didn't like the taste of either.

_He's had a heart-attack._

_He's drunk._

As she hurried up the steps of his apartment building, Margaret wondered exactly how much guilt she should be feeling for half-hoping it was the former.

The tightness of fear grew in her chest as she left the elevator on Leo's floor and saw his door standing slightly ajar. _Oh, God. He's staggered home last night, fumbled the door open, and collapsed on the floor-_

-dead drunk.

-dead.

With a strange blend of mortal terror and determination, Margaret moved over to the apartment door and pushed it open.

Then she screamed.

* * *

"Firstly, Joshua, I have no sympathy for you because it's entirely your own fault," said CJ pointedly. "Secondly, I have better things to do with my time than fix your little problems. And thirdly-" The phone at Carol's empty station started to ring. "-I have to answer my phone."

"Don't you have an assistant?" he asked petulantly. CJ rolled her eyes at him.

"Don't you have a job?" She turned her attention to her phone. Josh made to leave, then stopped abruptly as he saw her face go pale.

"Margaret? Margaret, slow down. What's wrong? What's happened?" Josh felt his heart suddenly hitch in his chest.

_Oh, God, not Leo, don't let anything have happened to Leo, don't let him be drunk, don't let him be hurt, don't let him be_ dying, _you took dad and Joanie and you nearly had me, you can't have Leo-_

"Trashed? Totally? And is he-? Well, where-? Okay, Margaret, okay. Slow down. Did you call the police? Okay. Okay, stay calm. I'll send somebody right over. No, don't hang up, I'm not going." CJ momentarily covered the bottom of the handset and turned worried eyes on Josh. "It's Margaret. Leo's apartment's been totally trashed."

Josh felt his bones turn to ice water inside him. "Is he-?" he managed to croak.

"We don't know," said CJ. "He's not there. He's disappeared."


	2. II

** II **

"So, anyway, Jeremy and are gonna take the Sturberger case, and- I'm boring you, aren't I?" broke off Michael with a soft smile.

"What? Oh, no, no. Really." Jenny pushed at her meal awkwardly, trying not to blush. _Dammit, just because you're a redhead doesn't mean you have to blush._ Truth to tell, she had been drifting a little, but it wasn't really Michael's work stories that were boring her. She was just... distracted.

It was strange, dating. It felt a lot like she was cheating on her husband, even though she was more than aware they weren't married anymore. She hadn't dated since she was in her early twenties. And somehow it had been easier to do then.

Take Michael. Michael Aaron Walker, hotshot lawyer. If she'd met him in her twenties, she'd have been squealing incoherently to her friends for hours, giggling about him over coffee in a corner café somewhere. Now she just felt... sort of melancholy.

Michael was handsome, smart, and witty. He was nearly ten years younger than her, and not at all bothered by the fact. He was sparkling conversation and great company... and she was all too aware that she really wasn't appreciating him enough. She had the nagging feeling she ought to cut this excellent catch loose for somebody who'd be more impressed by him.

Which wasn't to say that she wasn't impressed and delighted with Michael; it was just... muted. He was handsome, charming and considerate, and she found herself irrationally wishing he was more craggy-faced, irascible, and curmudgeonly. She even, perversely, wished he wouldn't keep apologising and stopping himself when he was talking too much about his work.

_Because yes, Jenny, a guy who's in love with his work is_ exactly _what you want. Get a hold of yourself, woman._

She sipped the glass of wine that she really shouldn't have ordered this early in the day, and wondered exactly when entertaining handsome, witty men who were interested in her had become a chore.

Her cellphone bleeped, and she tried to avoid diving for it too enthusiastically. The last thing she wanted to do was to try and explain to a potential suitor that what was wrong with him was that he didn't have the faults she was used to.

"Hello?" she asked, smiling apologetically at Michael. He shrugged and smiled back. _Dammit, wouldya stop being so considerate a minute?_

"Hey, mom," Mallory's voice echoed tinnily over the phone. "Is this a bad time?"

"No, no." She covered the mouthpiece momentarily and explained "It's my daughter."

Yet another goodguy point to Michael for not freaking out at the reminder she had a grown-up daughter in her late twenties. He just nodded, and motioned to the waiter. "You go on and talk to her. I'll settle up here - I've got to get back to the office, anyway."

"Thanks. Hold on, Mallory," she said into the phone, and she leaned across to give him a slight kiss on the cheek. He smiled brightly at her, and she hated herself a little bit more for being so down on him.

She wandered out of the restaurant with the phone, and the voice at the other end said teasingly "So, was that _Michael_?"

"Maybe," Jenny teased back, feeling a smile spread across her features that was more genuine than any she'd given in the restaurant. "Are you back? I thought you were away 'til Friday?"

"Ah, things with me and Roger didn't work out." Mallory didn't sound incredibly depressed though; she'd never expected Roger to be The One in any case.

"So you're back in DC with the rest of the week off? What are you going to do?"

She could picture her daughter shrugging over the phone. "I'll think of something. Meanwhile, I was thinking I could come over tonight... that is, if you don't have plans with _Michael_."

"Less of that cheek, young lady," she mocked gently. "A girls' night, is it?"

"Girls' night," Mallory confirmed. "Just the two of us. We can rent a movie and eat burnt popcorn and diss men."

"I look forward to it," said Jenny with a smile. Maybe this was what she needed to get out of this mopey mood; a chance to recharge her batteries with some good old mother-daughter bonding.

* * *

"I'm glad you're here," said Margaret gratefully. She'd been babbling away at him for quite some time now; he knew it was a nervous thing, and tried to nod and smile and be reassuring.

Probably that was why he'd been the one to end up here; good old smilin' Sam, the one who always put a brave face on things.

Certainly it wasn't for his experience with police investigations. All the uniforms around him were making him nervous; somehow beat officers were just more... _obvious_ than the Secret Service. And anyway, the Service were there to protect you in case something went wrong; the police only arrived when it already had.

There were a couple of people in suits around as well; Sam wasn't sure if they were detectives, Secret Service, or the FBI, and wasn't comfortable enough to ask. He felt very out of place here. These were serious-faced, gravelly-voiced people, who dealt in matters of life and death, not word order and punctuation. He felt like a little boy dressed up in his father's suit; there were few people in the world of politics who could make him feel like that anymore.

Leo had always been one of them. Getting called up on the carpet by Leo was like being dressed down by your father, or your kindly old school principal. The scolding could be harsh, but it never cut so deeply as the edge of disappointment.

The thought of something happening to Leo was, well... unthinkable. Things didn't happen _to_ Leo. Leo was where you went when it all hit the fan. Leo was where the buck stopped.

Margaret had fallen silent, watching one of the men in suits dust for fingerprints with a pensive expression. Sam opened his mouth to give her another reassuring platitude, and found he'd run out.

"I think he's been kidnapped," said Margaret quietly. And Sam wanted to laugh, or explode, or shout about how crazy that was.

Instead, he quietly admitted "I can't see any other explanation." The state of Leo's apartment had scared him, and badly. It wasn't like it had been turned over for a robbery; more like some crazy person had let loose, smashing everything within reach for no good reason.

But there was no blood, and Leo wasn't here. So he wasn't hurt. He _couldn't_ be. He'd been kidnapped; there was no other explanation.

"I can think of one," said Margaret, even quieter. "But I'm not sure it's not worse."

"What?" asked Sam, heart in his mouth.

Margaret's eyes were pools of worry, and she leaned in closer as if afraid the police might overhear them. "I know, I _know_ he wouldn't," she said emphatically. "But... what if he's been drinking?"

Sam looked around the trashed apartment and shook his head in complete denial. "You think Leo could have done _this_ to his own apartment?" There was no way.

But somehow when Margaret just kept that half-sad, half-frightened gaze on him, he couldn't stay so certain.

* * *

CJ slowly lowered the phone into the cradle, feeling slightly sick. The thought of going and reporting this news, or lack of it, to her friends and colleagues was a thousand times more frightening than going out to face a press corps with the scent of blood.

They'd kept Leo's absence quiet, as much as possible - at least until they could get some clue as to the reason for it - but with a man as omnipresent as Leo McGarry, that wasn't easy. Josh had felt the need to confide in Donna, of course, and the communications assistants had all had to find out when Sam left to join Margaret. CJ would have dearly loved to go herself, but an AWOL Press Secretary was just too much to risk.

Josh, too, had been tearing up the place like a caged puppy. They'd almost had to physically restrain him from rushing out to Leo's apartment, but despite the ashy taste it left in her mouth, she could only repeat her words from earlier. Whilst Leo was missing, Josh _couldn't_ go. She realised she hadn't really thought about the true weight of Joshua Lyman's position until it had come crashing down around his shoulders.

But even compounding Josh's agony paled in comparison to the _other_ job she'd had to do that morning. Breaking the news to the President. _Why did I volunteer for this? Why the hell did I ever agree to be the voice of this administration? Why did I agree to be the bearer of bad news?_

The President had been bright-eyed and breezy, as he always was when he'd had the chance to sleep in a little. He'd greeted her with that usual avuncular twinkle and a snippet of trivia - she couldn't even remember what - and it had physically _hurt_ to fix that press-conference-face in place and tell him what little they knew.

And now she had to go and do it again.

Carol's eyes were worried as CJ crossed the room with leaden feet, and she knew her expression wouldn't ease her assistant's anxiety. Josh dashed out into the corridor ahead of her, and then froze.

"Nothing?" he said, almost cringing at the answer he knew he would get. CJ could only shake her head.

"I have to go tell him," she said, and Josh quickly fell back out of her way. She didn't have to explain who 'him' referred to.

Charlie took one look at the expression on her face, and scooted quickly over to the Oval Office door. He knocked and held it open for her without waiting for a response from the President.

The President's eyes were hopeful as they trained on her... and she felt a knife twist in her guts as that flicker of optimism died. "What did they find?" he said quietly.

"Nothing, Mr. President. No prints except for Leo's. No traces of blood or anything-" the Press Secretary demeanour nearly slipped for a minute- "-anything untoward. They, um, they said it was hard to tell if there had been a struggle..."

"The whole apartment was smashed to pieces, I'd hazard a guess there was a goddamn struggle!" the President shouted. CJ winced.

"They, um, they don't think the damage was caused by a fight," she continued relentlessly. _Just like talking to the press; don't think about the reactions, don't think about the interruptions, just get the information out. Just like talking to the press._ If talking to the press were soul-destroyingly painful. "At least, not all of it. They seem to think it's more likely the place was smashed up after he was... abducted."

"So we're looking at a kidnapping here," observed the President quietly. His voice had smoothed out again, but his blue eyes were stormy and she couldn't read them.

"They said it's the most likely scenario," she agreed solemnly. _That or he's had his throat cut and been left lying in a gutter somewhere._

President Bartlet quietly folded his head into his hands, and sat motionless for a moment. Then he straightened up and looked CJ in the eye. "Why kidnap Leo?" he asked, and she could hear a note of plaintive innocence in the inquiry; for a moment the voice of a small boy asking why bad things should happen. "For ransom, for, for political gain? To make things happen? Don't they know he's the only one who gets things done around here?"

CJ could only point out the obvious. "Sir... the two things everyone knows about Leo McGarry are that he's important... and he's your friend."

President Bartlet closed his eyes, and she could almost feel the wave of guilt washing over him. _Don't, sir, don't do that! It's got nothing to do with who you are or anything you've done. It's not your fault!_ But the silence was too oppressive to try and say it aloud.

Suddenly the door opened, forcing a sudden gasp from her before she had even truly registered it. The President snapped. "Dammit, Charlie, can't you-" he trailed off at the look on his personal aide's face.

CJ felt the blood draining from her own. _Don't let that look be Leo. Let it be World War Three if it has to... just don't let it be Leo._

"I'm sorry, Mr. President, but it's urgent. They need you in the Situation Room."


	3. III

** III **

Jed slipped awkwardly behind the table in the Situation Room. His back was playing up again, and his eyes were aching. It had been a good morning, up until the point where he'd left the residence and had the mother of all headaches delivered to his doorstep.

There was a brief pause after the customary greetings, and then Baker cleared his throat and said "Leo's on his way?"

"No."

The whole group looked taken aback, not just by the news but by their leader's curt delivery. "Sir...?"

"He's not here. We don't know where he is. We're trying to find out."

There was another round of surprised, slightly confused silence. Jed found himself watching their eyes to see if any of them shared the same treacherous thoughts that had crept across his mind when he first heard the news.

_Dear God, he's gone and got himself drunk again._

If any of the officers around him were thinking that, they didn't show it. Damned military types. Right now he could have done with somebody to bawl out.

All too soon, professionalism clicked back into place, and papers that he didn't want to read and wouldn't understand were being pushed at him. "Mr. President, we've got a situation in Qumar..."

Jed listened, or tried to, as facts and figures and scenarios were bandied about. Normally he would have Leo at his side, translating military jargon into words he could easily grasp and relate to, telling him the right thing to do but never glossing over the cost or making it sound simple. Could he trust any of these near-strangers to do the same? He didn't think so.

_Everybody has an agenda but Leo. Whether it's funding, glory, strengthening our borders... everybody has an agenda._

If everybody had an agenda, who was looking out for what was _right_? That should be him, but he didn't know how. Jed hated this, hated being in a place his knowledge wouldn't stretch to cover. If his greatest strength was his wisdom, what did that say when he dealt in things of which he knew nothing?

He was lost, and he didn't have Leo to be his compass. He tried to comprehend, knowing how important this was, and all that happened was his brain began to blur and blur until he began to fear that it wasn't confusion at all, but the first advances of the disease insidiously eating at his nervous system.

Finally, he could take no more. He thumped a fist on the table, bringing the babble of noise to a merciful halt.

"Simplify this for me," he ordered. He was faced by a room full of blank faces.

"Mr. President-"

"_Simplify_ it," he growled. "I don't want to hear your advice. I don't want to hear the technical terms. I don't want to hear what you happen to personally think I should or shouldn't do. Just _tell me what I need to know._"

There was a silence, and he began to fear that nobody would speak up. Finally, one of them did. "Mr. President. The situation in Qumar is very precarious. They rebel faction is begging us to intervene, and there's sure to be bloodshed if we don't. But if we move against Qumar's legitimate government, it's likely a great deal of the Middle East will rise up in protest; it could mean war."

"And if we help this... 'rebel faction' take control, what exactly are we getting ourselves into?"

Baker coughed nervously. "Mr. President... the Free Qumar faction are no better than the government they're trying to replace. They've taken responsibility for terrorist strikes that have taken a number of civilian lives, and if they wrest control they're liable to execute the people they replace."

"So basically, there's a war going on between two sides, neither of which we support. We can stand by and watch a massacre, or intervene and start a full-scale war." They answered him with grave nods.

Well, at least he'd got a handle on what was going on.

Now all he needed was someone to tell him what the hell he was supposed to do about it.

* * *

Donna hovered hesitantly in the doorway. She almost rapped on the doorframe, something she never did... Josh hadn't even looked up at her. He was flipping through papers and scribbling at a furious rate, like a college undergrad who'd suddenly realised he only had twenty minutes to finish his assignment.

"Josh?" she said cautiously. He didn't seem to hear her, so she marched in to stand directly in front of him. He carried on scribbling, then froze and slowly raised his head to look up at her. His eyes were bleary, as if he'd been working all night, though he'd been bright and breezy just that morning.

"Donna," he said; flatly, without the usual warmth he injected into her name. Josh had many tones of voice, and Donna could distinguish all of them; whether the yell that sent interns scurrying for cover was angry or playful; whether when he called her Donnatella, he was being teasing or intimate.

This particular tone she barely recognised. If pressed, she'd have to call it a blend of his usual snappish impatience with the _what-the-hell-am-I-doing-up-this-early?_ dopiness. He sounded quite earth-shatteringly weary.

"I brought you coffee," she said, with a cautious smile. He took it from her with a detached nod, not even making some snarky comment about how she never brought him coffee. He opened his folder, and then looked up when he realised she was still there.

"Do you have the Buchanon file?" She shook her head. "The landfill thing?"

"Nope."

"Congressman Tyler's press release?"

"Nope."

"Then what the hell are you still doing here?" His voice raised into that frustrated whip-crack he used when he was at the end of his tether. She fought down a wince, knowing he was under stress but unable to completely ignore the sting.

And then, with its usual impeccable timing, Josh's sensitive side stole over him. He shook his head and slumped back in the chair, offering her a wry smile. She smiled back, tentatively.

"I'm sorry, Donna. It's just-" he shrugged and shook his head.

"I know."

Josh sighed, and pulled a face at the paperwork on his desk. "How does he do it, Donna?" he asked, and she knew he was talking about Leo. "Seriously. Does he have, like, a secret team of invisible midgets who hide in his office and do all the paperwork for him?"

"Invisible midgets?" She raised an eyebrow.

Josh pulled a face, and shrugged. "It's late. I'm tired."

"It's really not."

"No, it's really not," he agreed, looking mildly surprised. "It feels it."

"I'll bet." Josh was juggling both Leo's work and his own - and it wasn't as if either man had a particularly light workload. Donna hugged herself, feeling suddenly cold in the afternoon sun. "No news?" she said, sounding a little wobbly to her own ears.

Josh shook his head. "Sam and Margaret'll be back soon. Maybe they'll... they'll have something they can tell us."

Donna made herself smile weakly for him; this arrogant, brilliant, egotistical and terribly fragile man she'd somehow found herself devoted to. It was strange... it felt like she was experiencing anxiety secondhand. She adored Leo, and would feel the pain if something happened to him - but not half so harshly as she would feel Josh's pain. Actually, Leo was one of the very few people who saw what she saw when he looked at Josh; how incredibly easy it would be for some dark shadow to shatter him into tiny pieces.

Josh was strong, but he was delicate with it, and not just when it came to drinking. Leo was one of the few remaining cornerstones in his tragic personal life - if anything happened to him, Josh would be destroyed.

_So I won't_ let _it happen._

Never mind how that was probably beyond the reach of her secretarial super-powers. If that was what it take to protect Josh, she'd find a way to rearrange the universe accordingly.

But since she couldn't quite think of a way to do that just now, she reached out and gently touched the back of Josh's hand. "He'll be okay. I know it."

* * *

"They're here!" Donna came scurrying hurriedly into the office, like a schoolgirl who'd been waiting for the first guests at a party - though her face was anything but gleeful. Josh got up to follow her, but somehow the folder he had his nose stuck in came with him.

The sea of the White House staff parted around him as he made his way through the corridors without looking up. He stepped in to join Toby and CJ and sat down at a side table, immediately producing a pen and beginning to scribble in the margins.

A few moments later, Sam and Margaret arrived. Sam looked subdued, but Margaret was alive with jerky nervous tension. She almost jumped at the sound of Toby clearing his throat, and Sam quickly guided her to a chair. She smiled up at him gratefully.

"What did the police say?" asked CJ gently, leaning forward in her chair. That was all it took to fire Margaret up into babble mode.

"They said, um, he could have been kidnapped, but it's also possible that the damage was done while he wasn't there and he's gone missing of his own accord. They said without any evidence of foul play in his disappearance and without a ransom note they can't really do anything."

Toby made a disgruntled noise deep in his throat. "The fact that his apartment was redecorated with a baseball bat doesn't constitute foul play?"

"Not without anything to connect it to his disappearance," supplied Sam. "One of the investigating officers even suggested that he came home to the place in that state and went out to have something done about it."

"Without calling into work?" demanded CJ sceptically. They all exchanged looks. The DC police might think that was a viable scenario; the DC police didn't know Leo.

"They're not doing _anything_?" burst Donna disbelievingly. Univited, but not precisely barred either, she'd been lurking by the door to listen.

"There's nothing _to_ do," said Sam, quietly despairing. "No note, no blood, no fingerprints, no proof... they can't even put out a missing persons yet, when we all saw him late last night."

"So we're gonna do nothing but wait?" demanded CJ, although her hot tone had more to do with frustration than disbelief.

"We should call Mallory," said Margaret suddenly. "Mallory and Jenny."

There was a brief, uncomfortable silence. "I don't think we can," said CJ awkwardly. "Not this early. We've got no answers for them, and if they come charging down to the White House the press might take notice."

"Kidnappers might panic if there's a sudden blaze of publicity," Toby observed quietly. He didn't have to fill in the blanks about what that could mean for Leo. Dead men told no tales...

"What are we gonna tell people?" asked Donna quietly. "I mean, he's Leo McGarry. You can't pretend he's not missing."

"We could tell them he's got the flu," suggested Sam. "I mean, they must know that not even Leo's invulnerable."

There was a weighty silence, as they all fervently wished he hadn't said it.


	4. IV

** IV **

Jed returned to the Oval Office and slumped down in his chair. His head was swimming, but if it was the precursor to an MS attack he couldn't bring himself to care. If he passed out, maybe somebody else could make the decision for him.

_Who? Hoynes?_ Toby might have yelled when Leo took charge without being elected, but he was unquestionably the best man for the job. If Jed didn't make the decision himself, who else could he trust to take it?

_Because yeah, I'm likely to make such a good job of it, too._

_Where are you, Leo? Don't you know I need you?_

The merciful silence of the Oval Office was cut short all too soon. Charlie appeared in the doorway, hovering nervously. "Mr. President?" Jed remembered he'd snapped at him earlier. He felt too tired to even do that right now.

"Give me a minute, Charlie, could you?" he asked, waving him away. Charlie failed to leave.

"Mr. President?" he asked again, sounding concerned. Jed wondered if he _looked_ like he was about to pass out, instead of just felt it.

"Charlie, I've got more important things on my mind right now," he said sharply, even though he couldn't remember what mundane appointment Charlie was here to usher him to. "Not least of which being that my Chief of Staff and best friend of several decades is missing without an explanation, I have seventy-two hours to make a decision that could alter the fate of the entire world, and I haven't got a goddamn clue what to do about either!"

Charlie blinked, and looked a more than a little concerned. That kind of comment from the leader of the free world wasn't quite what he'd been trained for. "Uh... Mr. President, can I get you anything?" he asked helplessly.

"Yes!" Jed pointed a finger at him. "Get me Leo. I don't care what you have to do to do it - just get me Leo. I want him _found._"

In the heavy silence that rushed to fill the room as Charlie departed it, the only thing he could think was _I wish Abbey was here._

* * *

Somehow they found themselves congregating in the corridors. It was late, too late, and they had long since become too fractious to think about working... but nobody wanted to go home. Only Josh remained in his office, still slaving away with barely a thought for the lateness of the hour. Donna was at his side, faithful as ever, ready to stop him when he finally reached the point of keeling over.

CJ almost envied him that. At least he was _doing_ something, even if it was the frustrating make-work of keeping the country running. All she could do was stand around in the corridors, clenching and unclenching her fists and worrying.

Sam leaned against the wall, blue eyes cloudy with the troubled thoughts behind them as he stared at the carpeting. Toby stood with his hands in his pockets, face completely inscrutable. CJ was probably the best of them at reading his moods, but now she couldn't tell if he was dwelling on Leo, writing a speech in his head, or thinking nothing at all.

From where she stood, she could just see Margaret, bustling about in her usual place at the entrance to Leo's office. It must pain her to keep passing that gaping hole where he should be, but she was doing her duty like an assistant should, organising the files and handling the paperwork as professionally as ever.

_We don't pay these women enough. We don't pay any of them enough._ Margaret and Donna and Bonnie and Ginger and Carol and all the rest of them...

_People think_ we _run the country, but what do we know about it? We ask them to make things happen and they happen._ They're _the real miracle-workers of this administration._

Her mind was wandering off down strange avenues, going anywhere it could to avoid meeting the true issue head-on.

_-we should have heard by now, we should have heard by now, if they've taken him alive, we should have heard by now-_

Suddenly the President's voice cracked through the corridors, loud enough to make her jump. "_Dammit, Ron, don't give me that crap-_" They all ran for the Oval Office.

The President looked up at them as they approached, eyes smouldering with impotent fury. Ron Butterfield stood by, looking as coolly controlled as ever for all the shouting aimed his way.

"I'm sorry, Mr. President," he said, in the tone of voice of someone who'd been saying the same thing a long time now. "But until we have a ransom note or some kind of clue, there's nothing we can do." He looked across to the three of them in the doorway, and for a second CJ fancied she saw a flicker of sympathy cross his face. "There's nothing we can do."

* * *

Jenny tried to hold back a smile as she came into the room and found Mallory sitting on the couch with her knees pulled up under her chin. It was the way she had always sat to watch TV when she was a little girl. _A long, long time ago._

She waved the plastic bowl of popcorn. "I've restocked." She dropped the bowl on the coffee table, and Mallory grabbed a handful.

"I love this stuff," she announced, with her mouth full. "It's even better than the stuff you get at the movies."

"Oh, you're a connoisseur, now?" asked Jenny with a faint smile. Mallory shrugged.

"See a lot of guys, see a lot of movies."

"How many guys is a lot?" asked Jenny good-naturedly. Her daughter gave an unapologetic shrug.

"I only see them one at a time. Ssh, this is the good bit."

They stopped talking to watch the good bit.

"I like Jack Nicholson," announced Mallory, when they'd got past the good bit. "I have no idea why, but I do."

"He reminds me a little of your father," Jenny admitted. Mallory shot her a horrified glance.

"Thanks, mom! Congratulations, you've officially both freaked me out and spoiled this movie for me."

"Well, he does."

"Okay, let's not talk about dad," Mallory decreed. "This is our girls' night, remember?" She changed the subject. "So how about you tell me about Michael?"

Jenny shrugged, a little uncomfortably. "Nothing to tell, really. Like I told you, he's a lawyer, he's smart, he's sweet..." She shrugged again. "He's, well... nice."

"Nice? Oh, please," sniffed Mallory. "He's a guy, mom, not a picturesque view. What's 'nice' got to do with it? Guys should have zip and zing!"

Jenny had a feeling that 'zip and zing' was pretty much what she'd been missing. "Mallory, I've been around a good deal longer than you have. 'Zip' and 'zing' might be all very well, but sometimes you need a good healthy dose of nice." _Or comfortable. Or familiar._

There was a silence whilst they watched the movie. Then Mallory said suddenly "You should call him."

Jenny knew exactly who she meant, but she asked "Michael?" anyway.

"No, dad. You should call him."

"So should you."

Mallory gave her a look. "You know he got himself an apartment? He finally moved out of that hotel."

Jenny _hadn't_ known, and it hurt for no good reason. _Leo's apartment,_ she thought. _Leo's, and not mine._ When he was still at the hotel, it had still felt... well, temporary. Now he had a place of his own, and that felt like one more steel door slamming down between them.

_Which is good. A clean break. Putting distance between us. Which is good._

"I have his new number here," said Mallory, reaching for her bag. "You should call him."

"It's late," Jenny hedged. Part of her wanted nothing more than to hear his voice on the other end of the phone... but she didn't want to talk to him. There would only be awkward silences, and even more awkward conversation.

"He'll still be awake." Of course he would.

"He'll still be at work. I don't want to disturb him." In more ways than one. Leo didn't need to hear her voice now. He was moving on, he'd started getting over their break-up. If that hurt, well... that was growing pains. "I'll call him tomorrow. Some time tomorrow."

She looked at Mallory, and Mallory looked at her, and they both knew she was lying. But Mallory simply pressed the scribbled phone number into her hand, and they spoke no more about it.

* * *

It was dark. Pitch black. He opened his eyes, but the dark didn't go away.

The air felt hot and stuffy. Claustrophobic, like he was breathing in his own recycled air. Like he was sitting in the cramped little cockpit of his plane, breathing the same air over and over again.

_Get me out of here. I don't want to go back there, get me out of here._

He sat up cautiously, feeling the wall beside him. Then he stood, and when he reached up, he could feel the ceiling above him. There was not the slightest chink of light anywhere.

_If there's no light, how can there be any air? There's no air coming in, I can't breathe, get me out of here._

He stumbled along, feeling along the walls of his enclosure. It was small, as small as a prison cell or smaller, and he couldn't even feel if one of the walls was a door. He was trapped in here, in this little airless, lightless box, and he couldn't _breathe_-

He lay back down, trying to will his fast-beating heart to slow in his chest. He closed his eyes to pretend the dark was only because of that, and tried not to think about cockpits and planes and not being able to breathe.


	5. V

** V **

Jed Bartlet was not a morning person. Normally, it took the combined efforts of an alarm clock, several telephone calls and an insistent Charlie to make him admit that he was awake.

Not this morning. This morning, he was well awake and had been for some hours. There might have been some sweaty hours of fitful sleep in there somewhere, but he couldn't swear to it. Certainly there had been no rest.

The phone beside his bed suddenly exploded with ringing. A blur of possibilities chased through his mind in a fraction of an instant.

_They've found him._

_There's been a ransom note._

_He's fine._

_He's hurt._

_He's dead._

_None of those, it's just your morning wake-up call, you stupid old fool._

He snatched the phone out of its cradle in mid-ring, and discovered he'd been wrong on all counts.

"Jed?" Abbey sounded taken aback. Calling this early, she had been probably been prepared to wait ten or twenty rings before he reluctantly accepted that he'd have to answer.

For the first time in his life, the sound of that beautifully familiar voice down the phone line brought not delight, but a bitter twist of disappointment. "Abbey." He sought for a less flat-sounding greeting, and couldn't find one.

"Jed?" she said again. "Jed, are you okay? You sound..."

"I..." What could he tell her? Abbey was his confidante, but she was in another state, and there were things he couldn't say over the telephone. "Things are... things are rough here."

"Is there anything I can do?" she asked immediately.

Normally, normally he would say _Talk to me. Speak to me. Cheer me up. Make me feel better. Remind me you're there, even if you can't be close._ Today, horribly, all he could think was every instant that Abbey was on the phone could be an instant when the news of Leo's condition wasn't getting through.

"No," he said, closing his eyes in the dark. "No, I don't think so."

There was a brief silence, and then Abbey said, haltingly "Jed-"

"I'm sorry, Abbey," he said quickly, steam-rolling over her before he could hear the sympathetic pain in her voice. "I can't... I really can't talk about this. And I can't... I can't talk to you now. I wish..."

"I understand," she cut him off. And he knew she did, just as he also knew that it hurt. It hurt them both, and more than anything he wished she could be by his side.

_Vanity,_ he thought harshly. _What was I thinking? Why did I ever believe I could be the President?_ He had chosen to be here, in this place where his wife was missing two days out of three, where the world was hanging on a decision he couldn't make, where his best friend had paid who knew what price for his vanity... "I'm sorry, Abbey," he said again.

"I should... I should probably go."

_Don't go! Don't leave me all alone with this._ But that thought arrived in parallel with the relief that the phone would be free again, free to carry that all-important message to his ear. And he let her words hang in the silence, and said nothing.

"Okay, I'm, I'm going. Goodbye. I love you."

"I love you," he replied, and for an instant his heart lightened, buoyed up with the knowledge that even here and even now, those words were more than just a formality to him.

But only for an instant.

* * *

Josh was stirred awake by a gentle hand on his shoulder. He blinked, pushing himself up off the desk to look into Donna's worried face.

"You didn't get home, huh?"

He smiled wryly, and said "I am home." He wasn't even sure if he was joking.

She offered him a fragile smile. Then she reached behind her back, and offered him a Starbucks cup. He blinked at it uncomprehendingly for a moment, then cautiously reached out for it.

The cup was warm. He lifted it to his lips, tasted it. Looked up at her.

"This is coffee. _Warm_ coffee." He almost made a joke about his being fired, before it died on his lips with the realisation that right now there was nobody _to_ fire him.

"Moment of weakness," she claimed, but there was a stretched quality to the automatic banter, a suggestion that if you pushed it too hard, it would shatter with a crash. And yet, it felt as if the unspoken connection behind it had grown stronger than ever. It was almost as if there was something unseen flowing between them, warming him faster even than the coffee cup in his hands.

He reached out, impulsively, and took Donna's hand in his left. His mouth was open to speak, but there were no words waiting to come out, so he closed it again and just smiled at her. She smiled tenuously back, and for a moment they just looked at each other.

They broke apart with a rapid, almost guilty jerk as Josh's office door flew open. Josh jolted to his feet, nearly spilling the precious coffee, when he saw who it was. "Mr. Vice President!"

Hoynes scowled down at him. "What the hell is going on?"

"Sir?" he asked blankly. The last of the morning's little oasis of calm disappeared as Donna slipped silently away.

"Don't play coy with me, Josh!" the Vice President thundered. "Where the hell is Leo? He knows he's supposed to be meeting me this morning. I'm the Vice President of the United States, and I don't appreciate being dumped like a cheap date!"

Josh gaped at him for a second. He'd dealt with Leo's appointments... hadn't he? Had Margaret mentioned a meeting with Hoynes? He couldn't work out if it had slipped his mind, or never been there in the first place. "Leo's... not here," he said lamely.

Hoynes's irritation was derailed by confusion. "Not here?" he frowned. "Where is he?"

It was almost funny the way people couldn't process the idea of Leo not being at work... almost funny, apart from the part where it really wasn't. "Leo's, um, he's sick."

Damn Sam, and his stupid cover story. Sam, who'd been the one to tell him years ago that he had no poker face. He fully expected Hoynes to throw his stumbling lie back in his face, demand the _real_ explanation. He was totally knocked off balance when the Vice President actually looked dismayed and drew back.

"I... I'm sorry, Josh," he apologised. Josh blinked at him, confused. _Huh?_ "I should've, um, I should've checked my facts before I blew up at you. I'm guessing you must be pretty snowed under, so I'll, I'll call Margaret or something later, okay? I'll do that." He exited fairly promptly, and Josh was left staring after him.

_What the hell just happened here?_

* * *

"Mr. Vice President?"

As Isaac entered his boss's office, his eyes were drawn almost immediately to the way Hoynes's hands were fiddling with the coaster his coffee cup usually stood on. He was tapping it against the table, absently.

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

It was a nervous mannerism, Isaac knew. A very bad nervous mannerism. It was the way Hoynes's hands occupied themselves when they _really_ wanted to be pouring out a shot of whiskey.

Isaac had been with John Hoynes since the days when he had been running for the Presidency and nobody outside of New Hampshire had ever heard of Josiah Bartlet. As the Vice President's personal assistant, he was one of the very select few who knew his boss's long-held secret. As such, he drove himself near insane with worry, knowing he might well be the only one who was looking out for the signs. He could only pray that whatever was eating his boss was something easily fixed.

"Sir?" he prompted, when Hoynes said nothing. The older man focused on him, as if he'd only just remembered his presence.

"Ah, Isaac, yes. Do you have a minute?" Hoynes leaned forwards towards him, but Isaac's eyes followed the coaster as he began flexing it between his hands.

"Yes, sir," he replied, refraining from pointing out that Hoynes was the one who set his schedule in the first place.

"Good. I need you to do a favour for me... a slightly strange favour."

"Sir?" he asked, apprehensively.

Hoynes, mercifully, dropped the coaster on the desk and reached for a business card with an address written on the back in his own neat letters. He pushed the card across the desk to Isaac. "I need you to go to this address."

"Whose is it?" asked Isaac, pocketing it, and for a moment feeling absurdly like he was he was being set up to make some kind of drugs rendezvous.

"Leo McGarry's." Hoynes gave him a pointed look. "I need you to check on him. In a very unofficial capacity."

"Sir?" he asked, now completely confused. His boss had been set to meet with McGarry that morning, but he'd returned early, and disappeared into his office... and this brooding mood.

"I think he might be in trouble." Isaac had seen the news reports. He knew the kind of 'trouble' Hoynes was thinking of.

"Sir?" he questioned. "What do you-"

"Just something Josh said," his boss cut him off. "Or rather, something he didn't say." He looked up at Isaac. "Leo McGarry's a strong man," he said softly. "He kept my secrets; I'll keep his. I just want you to make sure he's okay."

Isaac nodded in acknowledgement, and wondered to himself if Leo McGarry's personal assistant ever felt the same icy dread as he did when his boss's hands were tapping coasters.

* * *

"Mr. McGarry?"

Standing in the apartment block hallway, Isaac felt more than a little stupid. What would he do if McGarry actually answered the door? He barely knew the man.

But no one came to the door. He knocked again, and stood around somewhat helplessly. What was he supposed to do now? He really didn't want to go back to his boss empty-handed. Not when Hoynes was so visibily agitated over this. His boss had confided to him late one night during their early days in the White House that he drew strength from Leo.

_The man drives me crazy,_ he'd said. _He drives me crazy, but he's a man of steel. He makes you believe it can be done. He makes you believe it's possible to stay that strong._

Isaac dreaded to think how his boss might take it if Leo had relapsed into his drinking ways. It would be a cruel blow to his own willpower to see someone whose resolve he so admired crash and burn.

One of the doors down the hall opened, and an elderly woman gave him a flash of a smile. He was considering approaching her when she called to him "You're not looking for Mr. McGarry, are you?"

"Uh, yes. Yes, actually," he called back, hoping against hope she might know something.

"You won't find him there; not this time of the day," the woman told him. "He'll be at work. Works all the hours God sends, that one, and then some."

"Oh. Oh, right. Thank you," he said, groundless hope fading. He should have guessed McGarry's neighbours would barely see the man. He made for the elevator, and then held it open for the little old woman.

"Thank you, dear," she said with a smile. "You're a friend of Mr. McGarry's, then? That's nice. He doesn't get many visitors. Well, not usually, though it seems the world's been beating a path to his door lately."

"Really?" asked Isaac politely, feeling a bit disgusted at himself for misleading a friendly old woman about his intentions. _I definitely wasn't made to be a private investigator._

"Oh yes. There was that tall red-headed girl yesterday morning; I saw her go in just as I was leaving to do my shopping."

"That was probably Margaret," Isaac supplied, wondering why she would be visiting her boss at home. "She's his, um, secretary." Though it always bugged him being called a secretary himself, he wasn't really in the mood to debate the difference between one and a personal assistant with a kindly old lady.

"Oh, yes. I should have guessed it was something to do with his work. That man works too hard, you know." Isaac nodded neutrally. "I wonder about the other one, though."

"Hmm?"

"He didn't look like the sort of man who'd be friends with your Mr. McGarry. He's a real gentleman, Mr. McGarry; always immaculately turned out. I always think it's lovely to see a man take an effort with his appearance; these days, men just don't dress smartly anymore."

"And this other man?" Isaac prompted, curious now.

"Oh, he- well, I feel awful to judge you know. He might have been a lovely man, but he looked... well, he bothered me a little I'll admit. Oh, I feel so silly, but you can't be too careful these days. You hear all about these purse-snatchers, even this close to the White House..." Isaac nodded tolerantly in all the right places. Working in politics, you got used to long-winded talkers.

"Anyway, this fellow had a terrible scar. Ooh, I know, I tried not to stare, it's hardly his fault, is it? But he was wearing camouflage colours, too, you know those splotchy greens and browns like soldiers wear. And he wasn't a young man, either; he must have been around Mr. McGarry's age. I always think that's terribly sad; these people are so in love with their wars. My boy Alfie, he died in one of their wars, and there wasn't anything wonderful about that, I can tell you."

"I'm sorry," said Isaac, and meant it. The woman gave a gentle shrug.

"Mustn't dwell, now. It's all in the past." The elevator reached the bottom, and she turned to Isaac with a smile. "Next time you see your friend, you tell him not to work so hard. And tell him anytime he thinks he needs a proper meal, I'll cook one for him. He needs some feeding up. I'm Elsie Bannerman, by the way."

"I'll do that," Isaac agreed, with a smile. It faded quickly, though, as he left the apartment building and hurried away.

What the hell was going on with Leo McGarry?


	6. VI

** VI **

Josh almost flinched under the others' gazes as he entered the office. Probably none of them were even aware they were doing it, but he felt the accusation in their eyes all the same.

_This is Senior Staff, and you're not Leo. What do you think you're doing, taking Leo's place?_

But somebody had to take Leo's place. And that somebody, much as the weight of the responsibility threatened to crush him, was Joshua Lyman.

He sat down, and cleared his throat, shuffling his papers. The room was silent, and he remembered yesterday's meeting, when Leo had been absent but all the same it had been different. They had mocked and he'd flailed about uselessly, and it had all been a big joke.

Now, it was anything but a joke, and he had to be in charge.

He started with the easiest first. "Sam. The Goodman thing. Is it sorted?"

Sam seemed to almost flinch, as if startled to be addressed. "I, uh, I... I was with Margaret yesterday, I didn't-"

"Get it dealt with," he ordered, wondering as he said it what was happening to him. He was Bartlet's attack dog, incurable wisecracker under pressure. If there was anything to be written on his tombstone when he died, it would be 'made stupid remarks at really inappropriate times'. Today, though, he couldn't bring himself to speak in anything more than terse, sharp sentences. "We don't need that coming back to bite us in the ass right now."

Sam looked hurt, but bit back whatever he wanted to say. Josh turned to CJ. "There were no questions about Leo yesterday; there'll probably be some today. You should-"

"I know my job, Josh," she told him warningly. And now there should be a quip, or a smiled apology, but all he could muster was a stern nod.

He turned to Toby. "Toby. Weismann and Cable?"

"Under control," said Toby shortly.

"What about the land use rider? Did you speak to Terry and Walters?" He could see the irritation building up under the surface, and couldn't help resenting it. This was his _job_, dammit, what was he supposed to do? Let it all slide by unquestioned because they didn't want to give him the acquiescence they gave to Leo? "What about Lewisham's office? Did they-"

"I said it's _under control_, Josh," Toby said hotly.

"Fine," he said shortly, although it wasn't. The tension level in the room was rocketing upwards, and he couldn't find it in himself to defuse it. He glanced down at the papers in front of him, not looking at any of them.

"CJ, you have to get something done about that article in the _New York Times_. And the President needs a position paper on-"

"Dammit, Josh!" What surprised him most about the outburst was that it was Sam who'd snapped first. He rose out of his seat, going red in the face as he did under stress. "We're _doing_ our jobs-"

"I know you are!" he barked back, barely recognising the tenor in his own voice. He was out of his seat too, in fact they all were, although he wasn't sure he was aware of any of them moving. "And I'm doing _mine_, and that means you have to _listen_ to me."

"We don't answer to you," Toby contested hotly. "I don't know what you think-"

"I _think_ you do answer to me," Josh hit back dangerously softly. The words were acid on his tongue, but he had to speak them anyway. "I think I'm the Acting Chief of Staff and you _do_ answer to me."

For a moment there was simmering silence, as he and Toby stared each other down, and a little voice in the back of his head was gabbling desperate apologies - but not to Toby.

_Sorry Leo, I'm sorry Leo, I didn't want this, I didn't want to do this, I didn't want them to_ make _me do this-_

Toby stepped back in a single decisive motion. "If that's the way you want it," he said coldly. And Josh wanted to scream that of course it wasn't how he wanted it, but he didn't.

Toby left without a backward look, and the others trailed after him. CJ paused in the doorway and shot him a hurt expression, and he wanted to tell her that he wasn't being disloyal, it was loyalty to Leo that was forcing him to do this, but he didn't say that either.

Sam was last to leave, and for a moment he opened his mouth to speak- but then he shut it again, and left. And Josh was alone.

He sank down into his chair and allowed his head to thump against the desk in front of him. Was this it? The taste of authority? It was a bitter, bitter flavour in the back of his throat, threatening to gag him.

He wanted to just stay slumped like that forever, but a moment later a hand on his shoulder disturbed him. "Josh." Of course, it was Donna.

"Donna," he said, unable to keep the despairing edge out of his voice.

She looked back at him with pain in her eyes, but all she said was "The President wants to see you."

Of course he did. Because it never ended. You got hurt and sick and frustrated and so very, very tired, but it never ended. It just kept rolling on and on and on. He stood up.

* * *

"Mr. President." He stepped inside the Oval Office, and the sick feeling in his stomach tightened into something jumpier as he saw who stood beside him.

"Josh," said the President with a brief nod, but Josh only had eyes for Ron Butterfield.

"Is there-"

"There's been no news," Ron cut him off briskly, before false hope could take root. "No ransom note sent, and it's been twenty-four hours. It's time we investigated some other possibilities." Josh felt rather than saw the President's face tighten across the room.

"Other possibilities?" he demanded, feeling a flash of frustrated anger boiling to the surface. "Like what?"

It was the President who answered, sounding as sickly weary as he felt. "We have a situation in Qumar, Josh. A bad one." That gave Josh pause. He dealt with political situations. When he was out of the loop, that meant military, which was-

_-Leo's job, that's_ Leo's _job-_

"We may have to face that possibility that Mr. McGarry was taken to hamper our decision-making process," Ron explained, maddeningly calmly.

"No!" he retorted, before his brain even recognised the reason he was arguing. "That can't be-"

"If there were demands to be made, we should have received them by now," Ron continued implacably. "So it's possible that he's been taken to-"

"No, because if they-" Josh didn't finish the thought aloud, but the President flinched exactly as if he had.

_If they took him to hamper us, then he's not coming back._ Even in the hidden recesses of his own mind, it felt like treachery to finish the thought. _If that's why they took him, then he's already dead._

"You have to find him!" He rounded on Butterfield, because there was nobody else to shout at. If he shouted at Butterfield, the agent would calmly take it; not flinch in that heart-wrenching way the President did.

"We're working on leads from the Qumar angle-"

"Work harder!" Josh demanded. "Work faster!"

"Josh." The President's quiet voice silenced him faster than any shout. He wheeled around to face his leader, not looking into his eyes for fear of what he would see there. "We have to keep functioning. As much as-" His voice faltered. "As difficult as this is, as much as it hurts, _we have to keep functioning._"

This was an ironic little flavour of the bitter pill he'd forced upon the senior staff. Contrary to popular wisdom, neither giving nor receiving had been particularly enjoyable.

"Yes, sir," he said, looking at his feet.

There was a long silence, and then the President said heavily "I have to call Jenny and Mallory." Now Josh finally looked up, and saw an echo of his own pain written on that so familiar face.

"I could-"

"I have to do this myself." Josh nodded, and hated himself for the sharp blaze of relief that shot through him. For a moment they just waited. Then the President sighed, and ran a hand over his face.

"I'll need to know what's going on with the Weisman situation. And this thing in the _New York Times_."

"Uh-" Josh was caught flat-footed. This wasn't what he did. It was Leo who reassured the President things were going swimmingly, or warned if they were not, told him what he needed to know and left out what he didn't.

"Not now, Josh." The President waved him away. "Later."

Josh nodded gratefully. "Yes, sir. I'll, um, I'll send Donna over with the files in a little while."

The President dismissed him with a nod, and he fled the room with some relief.

* * *

Jed sat at his desk, and mused on small ironies. Ever since the dark day he'd learned of the disease lurking inside him, his biggest fear had been the day that he would try to think and find his mind completely blank.

Today, he found himself wishing that day had come upon him.

He was supposed to be working, but he was barely aware of himself, let alone Charlie's entrances and exits, or the files on his desk. All he could think about was Leo.

They had first met over thirty years ago, and there had been no fanfare, no big neon lights to tell him he'd met a soulmate. Their wives had been friends, their children had been friends, and they had known each other in passing.

And, somewhere along the line, that casual acquaintance had grown, until it had become something so powerful he could imagine living without it no better than he could being without Abbey or without one of his children.

_So much wasted time..._ Why hadn't they sat down and _talked_, that very first night they met? All those years Leo had been Jenny's husband, Mallory's father, Abbey's friend... All those years they'd smiled in passing and exchanged brief pleasantries, and he'd never realised that he was missing out on the friendship he'd been looking for all his life.

_Maybe if I'd known you better then, I could have saved you later. Saved you from the bottles, from the pills, from yourself._ He knew it wasn't true, but he believed it anyway. Believed it down in his gut, the only place where it mattered.

_I wasn't a good enough friend. I was never a good enough friend. And now here I sit in my Oval Office, just waiting - _waiting. _You're gone, you're missing, I should be tearing the world apart. And what am I doing? I'm sitting here. Waiting. Because I'm the President, and I'm more a prisoner of this office than I ever would be in a jail cell._

He wasn't aware of the door opening, until a meek voice said "Mr. President?" He looked up, and Donna Moss nervously held out a stack of files.

He took them from her, and leafed through them for a second. Then he threw them down angrily. "Dammit, I can't read these. Where are my glasses?"

"Um, Mr. President? They're... on your head." Donna winced as she pointed out the obvious. Jed pulled them down onto his face and glared at her.

"Thank you," he said harshly. She scurried for the exit, and he had to make himself stop her. "Donna." She froze in mid-step and turned around, looking like he had her in his firing sights.

It took every bit of muscle power he had, but Jed forced his face up into a smile of apology. "Donna. I'm sorry."

She answered him with a beam that was blinding even through her obvious sorrow. "That's okay, Mr. President. I get worse from Josh every day."

"He's lucky to have you," he told her, and meant it. An older, more familiar pang of grief ran through him. _Oh, Mrs. Landingham, how much I need you now..._

Donna smiled again, shyly, and approached the desk again. "Is there anything I can do to help, sir?"

He was amazed anew at the sheer dedication of the staff in this building. Donna had to be more than run off her feet with Josh doing two jobs simultaneously, yet she wouldn't hesitate to offer her assistance. _I wonder how big a fit the budget department would throw if I declared a pay rise for everybody in the building?_

Jed sighed, and came around the desk to stand with her. "Thank you, Donna. I appreciate that. But the best thing you can be doing now is helping Josh. He needs a lot of support at the moment." Jed looked down at the floor, and sighed again. "We all do."

"Yes, Mr. President." Donna gave him another of those electric smiles. And then, impulsively, she hugged him.

It was a toss-up which one of them was more surprised by the gesture. Donna pulled away from him instantly, and looked utterly shocked by her own audacity. Jed, for his part, couldn't help smiling at her. A real smile... just about the first one he'd had in the last twenty-four hours.

"You should be getting back to Josh," he suggested gently.

"Yes, sir," she agreed, and disappeared out of the room with one last gentle smile.

Jed returned to his desk and sat down. Leo was still missing. Qumar was still hanging on his decision. He still had to make those godawful phonecalls to Jenny and Mallory. Nothing had changed.

And yet, somehow, he felt a little warmer.


	7. VII

** VII **

Jed looked at the two women in front of him, and wondered where his words had gone. Wasn't he famous for holding forth for hours on the tiniest little pieces of trivia? So why, now, when it was so desperately important, could he not think of a single little thing to say?

Mallory had been alternating between undirected fury and a kind of crumpled distress that was heart-breaking to watch. Jenny, of course, was bearing up in stoic silence, but Jed could see the pain in her eyes.

He longed to gather them both in his arms and comfort them, and yet something held him back. When Donna had hugged him earlier, it had been almost shocking... a momentary breaking-down of walls he had never really realised were there.

People didn't _touch_ the President. It was as if the office made you something different, something unapproachable. If he had still been plain old Jed Bartlet, he could have sat his best friend's family down on the couch and held them, comforted them in their fear and distress. But he was President Bartlet now, and somehow that meant he couldn't do so.

If he couldn't lend his support physically, then at the very least he should be able to muster the words. Words were his power, and always had been; all those speeches, not just the ones carefully crafted by Sam and Toby, but the ones that tripped off his tongue without even thinking about it. All those nights on the campaign or in this very office, when he had lifted his team out of their depression and fired their hopes anew, with the power of his own conviction. Where was that faith now, when he truly needed it?

He hadn't been able to tell them anything over the phone, but they had known the moment he summoned them to the White House. And when they had arrived, he thought that his inability to tell them anything had hurt worse than any blow they had been steeling themselves for.

_Where are you, Leo? Are you hurt? Are you thinking of me? Of them? Are you even still alive?_

Dammit, what was wrong with him, that he could only think these thoughts and offer not a crumb of support to Leo's family?

"I-" He broke off, because the words were still not there. He couldn't bring himself to utter trite assurances he didn't believe. They deserved more from him than that.

Jenny just smiled at him sadly; understanding, forgiving. He hated that.

_Why won't you shout at me? Rail at me? You know this is my fault. I stole your husband from you; it was me he did it for, and you must know it. It was me who kept him working all the hours until finally you had to leave. It's because of me he's missing now, arrogant old Jed Bartlet who thought he could be President._

Tell me that. Shout at me. Hate me. Please, why won't you hate me? The weight of Jenny's sympathy threatened to snap him in two. What right did he have to it?

Mallory made a small noise of distress, and suddenly huddled up against her mother. In that instant, Jed saw her as she had been; a smiling child with a blaze of red hair who had laughed and played with his eldest daughter Liz. Leo had lost so much of her childhood in the bottom of his bottles - and now, the fragile bond they'd managed to regrow might have been severed for good.

_If you die, Leo-_

He didn't finish the thought, because there _was_ no finish to it. If Leo died, if Leo _was_ dead, that was the end. There would be no going on.

"I... I'm sorry," he said, shaking his head. Because sometimes the most painfully inadequate words were the only ones there were. "I'm... so sorry."

Mallory turned a teary face towards him, and he wished, he _wished_ that he could cry. "Where is he?" she said quietly. "Uncle Jed, where is he?"

* * *

The blaze of light was like a supernova, so fierce he cried out in pain and twisted around to shield his tear-filled eyes. When he could bring himself to lower his arms, all he could see was a dark silhouette blotting part of the brightness.

Something inside him was shouting urgently that he needed to get up, run, charge, but his body was too slow, too sluggish. _I'm_ old_, God I feel so_ old...

"You're alive." The voice was harsh, and thick with contempt. "It's almost a pity..."

"What-?" Leo began, hardly able to frame the question as his brain scrambled to regroup from the long hours in the lonely dark.

"Be quiet!" His sight was beginning to return to him now. The blurry shape was resolving itself into the figure of a man, tall and broad shouldered. It almost filled the doorway, but behind it he could see... sky?

"You don't talk!" ordered his captor. "No talking! You're the prisoner now! It's time you tasted your own medicine. It's time you suffered for the crimes you've wrought."

"Crimes-?" asked Leo, honestly confused. The question seemed to infuriate the man in the doorway.

"You _ask_? You _ask_, as if there was any way you couldn't know?" Then the figure was moving towards him, and there was a blur of motion in the dark and _pain_, incredible pain in his stomach...

_Rifle butt, he hit you with a rifle butt-_

"It's time you suffered for your crimes, McGarry," said the shadowy figure standing over him. And in that moment, absurdly, he was struck by the vagye feeling that he knew the voice from somewhere. "It's about time you _paid what you owe._"

And then the rifle butt descended again, and much as he didn't want to cry out he did. He cried out, and curled up into a little ball of pain, and cursed himself for being weak and old.

_I should grab him, I should run, I could wrestle the rifle away from him-_ But the man was already walking away, and before he could convince his protesting body to obey the door was slamming shut. And even though the light had seared his eyes, the return to darkness made him want to slump down and cry with despair.

He wanted to just stay curled up in a ball of agony, but a something inside him started shouting. _You're gonna lie here on the floor and die, McGarry?_ it demanded, internal voice echoing his captor's scathing tones. _Get up, dammit! Get_ up_!_

Old, aching bones protesting, he forced himself into a sitting position. His head swam in the dark, but he breathed deeply, relishing the brief blast of fresh air his captor had brought with him.

_Fresh air. Sky. Outside the door. Door over there. Sky._ He crawled forwards in the dark, found the space where he knew the door must be. He ran an exploratory hand over it, and the wall beside it. _Wood._

_Wood. Wooden box. Sky. Outside. Wooden box, outside._

_Trailer._

He was being held inside some kind of trailer. Where, he couldn't guess, but that wasn't important. These walls around him weren't stone, they were wood. And not very thick wood, in all probability. If he'd still been twenty, he could have kicked a hole through them under his own power.

_You're not twenty anymore, McGarry. You haven't been twenty for a long time._

Much as it pained him to do so, he had to admit it. He was old, and he was weak. He hadn't let himself go in his later years, but the drinking had seen to that well enough. You couldn't put yourself through that for so long and come away in the pink of health. And so many hours spent sitting at his desk...

He wasn't as strong as he would like to be. Well, that was his problem. He wasn't going to get any stronger wasting away in here. He might not be able to kick his way out, but already he knew far more than he had done when he woke up in the dark. He was in some kind of a trailer, and his captor obviously wanted something of him - even if that was only to come in and gloat as he grew progressively weaker.

Now all he had to do was tie that together into some sort of plan, and figure out how to get out of here.

* * *

Abbey blazed through the corridors of the White House like the angel of death, and anybody who saw the expression on her face scurried out of her way as fast as humanly possible. The First Lady was on her way home, and she was _pissed_.

It would take someone who knew Abigail Bartlet far better than the nervous junior staffers to recognise the angry expression on her face for what it truly was; fear.

That early morning conversation with Jed had turned her veins to ice. He hadn't needed to explain himself for her to know that something was very, very wrong. When things were bad, Jed leaned on her more than ever, no matter the distance between them. For things to be so bad that he wouldn't talk even to _her_...

Perhaps she had narrowly scraped some huge diplomatic incident in abruptly curtailing her trip. Right now, she couldn't bring herself to care. Her staff would smooth things over behind her abrupt departure, even if they didn't know the reason behind it themselves. And she had more important things to worry about than some minor official's wounded dignity.

The first West Winger to fall in her sights was Josh. Her doctor's eye took in his even more haggard than usual appearance, but she didn't have time to mother him now. She had a husband to see to.

"Where's my husband?" she demanded. "Where's Leo?"

Josh jumped as if he'd been completely unaware of her presence. He looked half dead on his feet. "Uh... um, uh, ma'am," he spluttered. "Uh, the President's in the Oval." He swallowed. "Um, you should probably go right in."

The haunted look on his face did nothing to calm her heart as it fluttered in her chest. _Oh God, what is it? What_ is _it?_ The only thought that kept her on her feet was the knowledge that it _couldn't_ be Jed, she'd spoken to him that very morning, it _couldn't_ be anything wrong with him...

_It isn't Jed, it's not my girls, it isn't Jed, it's not my girls._ Those certainties were like a mantra, the only comfort she could draw. Whatever it was, if it wasn't one of those then she was strong enough to survive it.

_I hope._

Charlie jumped to his feet as she approached, and he looked haunted, too. Instead of his usual chirpy greeting, he ran straight to the Oval Office door, and opened it without knocking.

The blast of nonsensical relief she felt at meeting Jed's eyes lasted about as long as it took for her to register who else was in the room with him.

Jenny and Mallory. _Oh God._ Jenny and Mallory.

With her soul sinking down in mortal dread, she asked the question she didn't want an answer to.

"What's happened to Leo?"


	8. VIII

** VIII **

"Oh, Abbey." Once again, the President found himself at a loss for words; but this time, it was not helplessness that paralysed him but mind-numbing relief. "Oh, Abbey, I'm so glad you're here." The two of them held each other in the dark of their shared bedroom as if letting go might cause the world to fly apart.

Abbey's unexpected arrival could not have been more timely. Jed had only been able to offer useless apologies, but his wife had been able to give the whole of herself without fear of tripping over invisible boundaries. He might be forced into a box of Presidential protocol, but Abbey was herself no matter what role she was playing.

She had been able to hug Mallory and Jenny; empathise with them, comfort them, understand their fears without giving in to them. Whilst Jed himself could only think of all the most awful possibilities, Abbey resolutely held to the belief that Leo was going to be found, and perfectly fine at that. _He_ might be scratching around for the tattered remains of his faith, but Abbey had never lost hers.

"You're so strong," he whispered in the dark, pressing a light kiss on the side of her neck. "You're so strong. What would I do without you?"

It was as if the mere presence of his wife of more than three decades was enough to fill him with a warmth and strength that hadn't been there. His fears for Leo didn't fade, but suddenly somehow they were bearable, faceable. The centre of his soul had been returned to him, and now he could believe... because she did.

The two of them had retired early to the residence; not for their usual playfully amorous reasons, but simply to be together. To hold each other was enough; in fact, in some ways it was more. The bond of love between them that could stretch but never break was the most precious thing in his life, and the source of all his strength.

That night, for the first time in what seemed like forever, Jed could hold his wife in his arms and fall into a quiet, dreamless sleep.

And in the dark, drifting into the blessed clutches of sleep, he didn't see the silent tears she shed as she at last allowed her own dismay and fear to surface.

* * *

Josh wasn't sure how late it was, or how long it had been since he had been doing anything but working. He wasn't sure it mattered, either; his veins felt like they were running with pure caffeine.

When Sam appeared in his doorway, he came to a complete halt; overworked brain completely derailed.

"Josh," said Sam finally, when it became clear that his best friend wasn't going to form a sentence anytime soon.

A few lights came back on. "Sam." Josh blinked, and shook his head. "Why are you here? Did you call Gorman yet?"

"Josh," Sam's voice was gently concerned. "It's after eleven. You should go home."

"Can't," he said shortly, already itching to be back at his desk. He gestured vaguely to the papers on his desk. "Work."

"It can wait," said Sam, but Josh shook his head. He stepped forward. "Then I can help." Josh shook his head again.

"I'm doing it." Sam wanted to argue, but the slightly manic look in Josh's eyes convinced him to let it drop.

He sat down on the edge of his best friend's desk, and quietly observed "CJ and Toby are kind of pissed at you, you know."

"I know," said Josh shortly.

"They just-"

"I've gotta do this," Josh cut him off, urgently. "I know they- it's just- I have to. Somebody's gotta be the boss. I know they don't like it, but somebody's gotta be the boss."

Sam could feel for his co-workers and friends. There was a treacherous, lurching sensation in his stomach as Josh spoke the words. No matter how justified he knew it to be, it still felt like betrayal. He knew this was the reason Leo had brought Josh here, the responsibility he'd been groomed for... and yet it still felt like he was stabbing his mentor in the back.

_Leo's not dead yet, you can't just take his place. You can't just step up to the plate like he's never coming back._

Unlike his hotter-tempered friends, however, he recognised that nothing he could say to that effect could ever measure up to the torture Josh would be giving himself. So he said nothing. The silence lingered, not uncomfortably.

"Have you spoken to Mallory?" Josh asked him suddenly. Sam was taken aback by the sudden shift in subject.

"Um... I..." He shrugged. "I didn't think... she'd want to see me." _Hey, Mallory, so I heard your dad's missing and possibly dead, this seems like a good time to bring up all our old arguments._

"You should talk to her," Josh advised, and Sam couldn't tell if it was good advice or not.

"She went home. They both did." At Josh's surprised look, he elaborated "The First Lady offered to let them stay in the residence. They decided to go home."

"Is it late?" asked Josh vaguely. Sam's forehead furrowed in concern.

"Josh, it's after eleven. I told you just a second ago."

"You should go," Josh told him. Sam raised his eyebrows.

"_I_ should go?"

"You should go find Mallory. She'll want to see you."

Sam wasn't sure whether that was true or not. He supposed he ought to find out.

* * *

Sam hovered awkwardly outside Mallory's home, debating pressing the buzzer. There was still time to turn around and leave before she'd even known he was there. Because after all, why would she possibly want to see him?

His anxious thoughts were cut short as the door suddenly opened, and he found himself face to face with Leo's ex-wife. "Oh! Um, Mrs- M- uh-" He stuttered, wanting to call her Mrs. McGarry and suddenly remembering that she wasn't any longer. His face flared into an embarrassed blush, remembering that mortifying day years ago. He'd been a little tipsy, he hadn't realised she was Leo's wife... it has just been a dumb, easily forgotten little incident, clumsily hitting on someone when he didn't know any better, but now it felt like one more item on the list of ways he'd failed Leo.

By all rights she should have cut him dead, given him an icy glare, but amazingly enough she chanced a fragile smile. "Sam," she said, sounding warm enough.

"Um, um, I was just going to-"

"Check on Mallory?" Amazingly enough, she didn't sound like she was about to batter him to death with her handbag for such an audacious suggestion. "Good. I didn't want to leave her alone, but I have to- I'll let you in."

She opened the door for him, and he hovered just outside it hesitantly. "You can go in, Sam," said Jenny, with just the hint of a smile in her voice. "She won't bite your head off." He glanced at her worriedly. "And neither will I. You're a good boy, Sam, and I don't hold grudges."

Well, that was good to know. However, experience had suggested that _Mallory_ did. As Jenny let the door fall closed behind him, he stepped inside with some trepidation.

"Mallory?"

"Sam?" Her voice, sounding unusually childish, came from the next room. He stepped inside, and saw her huddled on the couch, holding onto a slightly battered blue teddybear.

She followed his gaze, and gave him a warning look. "This is Mr. Fuzzles. Don't you dare laugh."

"I wasn't going to," he assured her gently, coming in to perch on the arm of the couch beside her. He ruffled the fur on the bear's head as if it was a child, and Mallory rewarded him with a cautious smile. She swung the bear by its arms, and held it up to look at it.

"Daddy bought him for me," she explained, not really to Sam but just in general. "When I was five. I grew out of him, but sometimes I used to take him to bed with me anyway, when... when things with dad were bad."

"It's okay," said Sam, slipping an arm around her shoulders. He kissed the top of her head, gently; not as a potential boyfriend, but as a friend. That was what Mallory needed right now. "You'll see. Your dad's gonna be fine. He's a survivor. He's gonna be fine."

Mallory responded by tugging him off the arm of the chair to squeeze in beside her. She hugged the teddybear tightly against her chest, and he wrapped his arms around the both of them. They sat for a long time in silence.

* * *

Jenny stepped into the house, reflecting not for the first time how empty it felt. It was bizarre... Leo had scarcely ever been home, and yet the house had held some imprint, some trace of his presence. Now it just echoed with the fact that he was gone.

It had been her ritual when she came in to go through, turning on all the lights. She had trained herself out of it before the divorce came through, reasoning that it was hopelessly weak and needy behaviour. Tonight she did it anyway, but it brought no comfort. The glare of the artificial lights did nothing to make the house feel warmer.

She saw the blinking light on the phone, and rushed towards it desperately. _They've found him. Please,_ please, _say they've found him._ But when she stabbed the button urgently, the voice that filled the room was Michael's.

_Beep._ "Hey, Jenny, it's me. Are you still home? Okay. Bye." _Beep._ "Jenny? It's me again. Did you forget our date?" _Beep._ "Dammit, Jenny, are you there? Pick up the phone if you are. Your cell phone's been turned off all night. Where _are_ you? Call me. I'm getting worried!"

Jenny stood there, allowing her bag to fall from her shoulder to the floor, and contemplated crying. She would have given everything she owned just to hear those familiar gravelly tones gruffly informing her that he was fine, she shouldn't have worried. But there were no more messages.

She wanted to sit down and cry. Instead, she picked up the phone and dialled. Michael answered on the first ring. "Jenny!" he sounded relieved, not angry, which only made it worse.

She realised she didn't know what to say to him. "Michael. I, I'm sorry I missed our date."

"Are you okay?" he asked urgently. "Did something happen?"

"I- yes, yes it did. My ex-husband..." she trailed off.

There was a pause. "Is he hurt? Was he in an accident?" asked Michael finally.

"Um-" Jenny realised that she couldn't tell him. Jed - it was hard to remember that she should be calling him 'Mr. President' when she had known him so long as Abbey's husband - had explained that the press didn't know, that nobody knew Leo was missing. "I- Michael, I can't exactly tell you."

"You can't tell me? What do you mean, you can't tell me?" The edge of concern had transmuted into confusion, with a touch of irritation.

"I- his job, you know he works in the White House..." she said weakly.

"You blew off our date for something to do with your ex-husband's job?" He sounded mad now, and Jenny couldn't blame him. She should have lied, but tonight it was beyond her to think of a cover story, and it was too late now.

"I- I'm sorry, Michael, really, I'd tell you if I could..."

"No, you know what? I wouldn't mind if you couldn't make it, but the least you could do was give me a call. I know I might not be Mr. Super-Important-Chief-of-Staff-of-the-White-House, but I am a person, you know. You could actually take the time to tell me when you're going to go running off with your ex-husband."

"Michael, I-" This was the point where she should break down and explain. Swear Michael to secrecy, and tell him the truth. Have him come over here and comfort her in her distress...

The thought of inviting Michael here, into this house, whilst Leo was undergoing God only knew what, made her suddenly want to throw up with guilt and dismay. "Michael, I- I can't do this right now."

"Fine," Michael said curtly. "Well, you know, you decide you want to treat me like a human being sometime, then you give me a call. Okay?" He hung up.

Jenny suspected that this was the point when she ought to burst into tears, shattered by this final straw. Instead she felt... faintly relieved. She could call Michael when all this was over, smooth things out... but she knew she wouldn't.

She tugged off her heels and slung them across the room, striking the far wall with a pair of satisfying thumps. She headed upstairs to her bedroom, suddenly bone-tired.

Jenny paused in the doorway of her bedroom, knifed in the ribs by the sight of that double bed. A bed that she'd gone to alone often enough even as a married woman... but tonight it seemed colder and lonelier than it had ever been.

She slipped beneath the sheets and hugged the pillow as she tossed and turned, wrestling dreams of a sandy-haired man with a gravelly voice and a battered heart of gold.


	9. IX

** IX **

Isaac pulled up a chair in the quiet little caf and eagerly awaited his waffles. Only a short walk away from the White House, this eating place was a favourite haunt of those politicos who needed more than caffeine to get them moving in the morning.

Isaac himself was fortunate enough to nearly always have a chance at snatching breakfast. His boss's near fanatical fondness for jogging - a passion his assistant _definitely_ didn't share - meant that he was usually out of the office long enough for Isaac to sneak out and grab his beloved morning waffles.

Aside from waffles, one of Isaac's biggest guilty pleasures was people-watching. He rationalised it as a useful job skill; who was having breakfast with who in Washington could be an early indication of a bill on its way down the pan, or a sneak attack in its infancy.

Plus, it was fun.

He sipped his coffee, and looked around for familiar faces. As a personal assistant, he was familiar not just with the movers and the shakers, but the lesser mortals who enabled them to do their moving and shaking. He had a little bet with himself over being able to identify his fellow breakfasters; if he could get more than half, he would treat himself to an extra waffle.

Today, though, his attention was snagged by a particularly memorable face; Bartlet's square-jawed speechwriter, Seaborn. The Communications Deputy was quite startlingly pretty for a man of his age, and Isaac could usually rely on much amusement from watching how oblivious he was to the waitresses fighting over him. The ever-hopeful young women who served here refused to believe that he could really be so wrapped up in scribbling on his little notepad that he didn't notice them.

This particular morning, however, things were different. Not only did Seaborn _not_ have his notepad open and pen flying at ninety miles an hour, but he had a young woman with him; a pleasant-faced young girl with red hair.

Isaac wondered vaguely if the writer had finally got a clue and acquired a girlfriend, but there was something familiar about the girl that was nagging at him. Seaborn covered her hand with his own in a protective way, talking to her with an earnest expression. The girl looked extremely worried about something, face screwed up in barely-contained misery.

_I know her. I do._ He bludgeoned his brains. Red-haired girl, red-haired girl. Red-haired girl in a fancy dress. Some kind of function? Official function. The White House. A function at the White House, but she wasn't political... somebody's family?

And then, abruptly, it clicked. He didn't know her name, but he knew who she was.

Leo McGarry's daughter.

Leo McGarry's daughter, talking with a senior Bartlet staffer and looking very, very concerned.

Isaac barely noticed the arrival of his much awaited waffles as he scrabbled hurriedly for his cell phone.

* * *

Hoynes stormed the West Wing like the forerunner of an invasion party. Isaac skittered along at his side, caught between wanting to be loyal to his boss and wishing he was anywhere but here. The Vice President's annoyance at being kept out of the loop had reached critical mass, and woe betide anybody who didn't get out of his way.

He headed straight for the Oval Office, and accosted the nervous-looking young black man just outside. "Is the President in his office?" he demanded.

"Uh, yes sir," the young man admitted, straightening up and looking very worried. Isaac felt rather sorry for him. What was his name; Charlie something? "B-but he's taking a very important phone call right now."

"Well, whatever it is, I'm sure he can call them back," fumed Hoynes.

The Press Secretary suddenly appeared in the corridor, and Isaac saw the President's body man shoot her a grateful glance. "Mr. Vice President," she said, sounding mildly surprised. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm here to see the President." He nodded at the young man. "Can you tell him I'm here, please." It was more a command than a request.

"Um... he's on the phone," he repeated awkwardly.

Hoynes looked annoyed. "Well, he should get off the damn phone! This is important." Standing beside him, Isaac tried not to wince too hard.

"He's the President of the United States, sir," CJ nudged gently. "It's possible that what he's talking about in there is important too."

Hoynes glowered at her. "Yes, well, he might be the President, but in case you've forgotten, I happen to be the _Vice_ President. And it would be nice if people could actually remember that fact, and try to keep me informed of the important things - like what the hell is going on with Leo McGarry?"

Isaac saw CJ's eyes widen before she could stop them, but the Press Secretary mask snapped into place double quick. "Sir, I-"

He cut her off impatiently. "Don't give me the official line, CJ, I'm not the press corps. I want the truth!"

A bleary-eyed Josh Lyman arrived, trailed by his and Leo's assistants. "What's going on?" he asked the gathering vaguely.

The Vice President ignored him, looking to the tall, red-headed woman behind him. "Margaret. Where's Leo?"

"Um-" Margaret looked flustered. From his occasional encounters with her, Isaac had gathered that Margaret _always_ looked flustered - but, under the flapping, slightly eccentric surface, she was one of the most efficient workers he had met in the White House. She guarded her boss's appointment book with a fist of iron - even, as he had seen when he was an amused witness to a semi-public scolding - against the man himself. McGarry would have to be a brave man indeed to risk the wrath of Margaret by scheduling his own appointments.

With all that in mind, then, Margaret should be able to reel off her boss's current whereabouts more easily than he could with his own. So her stuttered uncertainty was all the more suspicious.

_I was right,_ Isaac realised. He wasn't sure what about yet, but he had been right. There was something going on here.

Perhaps by professional instinct, CJ moved to defuse the situation. "Mr. Vice President," she urged. "If you'd like to-"

"I'd _like_," he cut her off pointedly, "to get an answer to my question." He looked from her to Margaret to Josh, and none of them met his eyes.

A nervous feeling of Isaac's was going to force him to break the silence, when the quiet click of a door did it for him. They all swivelled round to face the President as he stood in the Oval Office doorway. Isaac, the closest, couldn't help stepping back a pace. He had seen the President fairly close to explosion during some of his more violent disagreements with Hoynes, but none of that compared to the fiery light in his eyes right now.

"Perhaps," he suggested icily, "you'd like to take this inside?"

* * *

Hoynes went on the attack as soon as the Oval Office door closed behind them. "Okay, I've had just about enough of this. I don't know what the hell you're trying to pull, but I'd appreciate it if you'd credit me with a little intelligence, and, I don't know, maybe give me some respect?"

Josh and CJ looked awkward, but the President just regarded him coolly. Isaac hovered, wondering what he was doing in this office. He should have stayed outside - except, if he had, he knew he would only have been desperately trying to think of a way to eavesdrop on one of the most secure offices in the civilised world. No doubt Charlie, Margaret and Josh's assistant were doing so outside right now.

"I know Leo McGarry," Hoynes continued. "The man's never taken a sick day in his life! And you people are running around like headless chickens here. It doesn't take a whole lot of investigating to figure out there's something going on."

"Investigating?" Isaac closed his eyes and gulped as Bartlet picked up on the word. _Please, sir, you're my boss and my friend and I'd walk into fire for you, but_ please _don't bring my name into it in front of the President._ "You're checking up on my staff now? Looking for what?" There was a world of steel and venom underlying his cultured tones.

Hoynes had slipped his impassive face into place. "If we're gonna do this, I suggest we do this in private. _Sir_."

"I think perhaps we should," agreed Bartlet curtly. He tilted his head towards the three spectators, and they almost fled for the door.

If it hadn't been for the way his knees were shaking, Isaac might have taken the time to be amused at the guilty way Margaret and her blonde friend scuttled out of the way. Josh and CJ exchanged worried glances.

"Ouch," said Josh, wincing.

"Ouch," agreed CJ fervently.

"You go find us a new Vice President, I'll find somebody to mop up the blood," suggested Josh. As the two of them disappeared into the depths of the West Wing, Isaac wished he could believe that joke was wholly rhetorical.

Josh's assistant chased after him, and Charlie appeared to have - sensibly - found something to do that didn't involve being anywhere near ground zero. Margaret, however, appeared to be at a loose end. He gave her a cautious smile.

"What's happening in there?" she asked worriedly. Isaac couldn't help wincing in anticipation.

"I don't know, but if we hear shouting I'd suggest we call for the Secret Service."

Margaret rewarded him with a weak grin, and sat down on the edge of a nearby desk, looking a bit shaken. He came and sat down beside her.

"You okay?" he asked gently.

"I've been better," she admitted. "It's possible I've also been worse. But not often." She looked at him pointedly. "I can't tell you where Leo is," she warned.

"I know," he agreed mildly. He knew what it was to be an assistant. No matter where, no matter when, no matter what, you didn't sell out your boss.

"Oh. Okay." She smiled tentatively again, and Isaac fought off a sudden urge to give her a comforting hug. He barely knew her, but he knew the place she was in right now. He had been with Hoynes through the dark times of his alcohol abuse, and he knew the pain of the point when your influence ended and you could do nothing but wait in fear.

Instead, he lightly patted her arm, and said "Um... can I get you a coffee or anything?"

Margaret looked startled, then surprisingly grateful. "Please," she agreed. Leaving behind for the moment the room where the country's most powerful men might be tearing each other apart, the two assistants went in search of caffeine.


	10. X

** X **

For a brief time, all was silent in the Oval Office. The air was electric with the unspoken intensity of two strong-willed men on the edge of clashing. For a moment, oddly, neither of them seemed compelled to speak.

Hoynes was the first to lift his head and look his leader in the eye. He said, quietly but firmly "I am not the enemy. One day you're going to have to accept that, you know - as much as it drives you crazy. I am _not_ the enemy."

Bartlet's brows lowered as his blue eyes darkened. "You have a funny way of showing it."

Hoynes threw his arms wide in disbelief. "Oh, for God's sake-"

"No, 'cause I really would like to hear this," said the President, folding his arms. "Exactly what the hell gives you the right to be checking up on my people?"

Hoynes couldn't stop himself from rolling his eyes. "Listen to yourself! You make it sound like I have a team of private detectives shadowing their every move!"

"For all I know, you do," Bartlet muttered, but it was the petulant little boy tone he used when he knew he was wrong and didn't want to admit it.

"Believe me, Mr. President, your people are just not that interesting to me."

"And yet you found the time to do some checking up on Leo McGarry?"

"Well, maybe I wouldn't have to if your people kept me informed!" he blasted. Bartlet scowled at him.

"What's my Chief of Staff to you?" he demanded icily.

That was a question Hoynes couldn't answer without dragging a whole lot of buried secrets to the surface. "We have history," he said stiffly. The President let out an explosive snort of disbelief, and Hoynes narrowed his eyes. "I didn't say we were friends, I said we have history. People get to know each other. And I know better than to believe that Leo McGarry's hiding at home from nothing worse than a bout of the flu."

"Fine," said the President sharply. "And it didn't occur to you that if we weren't telling you something, there was a reason for it? You couldn't just trust us?"

"Why should I, when you don't trust me?" he shot back. And that was it, the crux of the matter; the reason why the partnership between the President and his second had never truly been a partnership at all. "Some day, you're gonna have to just accept me at face value! Not everything I do is always a plot to discredit you!"

Suddenly, incredibly, the President raised an eyebrow and cracked the beginning of a smile. "But it sometimes is?"

Almost despite himself, Hoynes mirrored the expression. "Only when I'm feeling particularly Machiavellian," he said. And suddenly, he was hit with it; a genuine, election-winning, good-ol'-boy Jed Bartlet grin. He wasn't sure if he remembered that famous expression ever being pointed in his direction before.

It was gone as quickly as it arrived, and the President looked at the floor. "Leo's missing," he said quietly.

Hoynes blinked, uncomprehending. "Mr. President?"

His boss looked up at him, and with a flash of soul-shaking insight, he saw that the darkness in his eyes wasn't anger, and probably never had been. It was something he'd never been permitted to see on the distinguished Bartlet face before; fear, and uncertainty. "He's missing, John. We can't tell you where he is, because _we don't know_. He didn't... he didn't turn up for work two days ago. Margaret went to his apartment. It was... the door was open, and things were... a mess."

"My God." The Vice President suddenly felt slightly unsteady on his feet. He'd come here fired up for a confrontation, ready to pressure his President into admitting that Leo's 'illness' was something far more serious; a life-threatening condition, or, perhaps worse, the terrifying prospect of a relapse. He had never for a moment anticipated anything like this.

He struggled to think. "Um, sir, I- was there a-?"

"No ransom note," Bartlet pre-empted him. "Just... nothing." He sounded anguished, and Hoynes knew he was seeing deeper into his leader's soul than he ever had before. He was struck by a sudden flash of a feeling that he had experienced only a handful of times before... the most overpowering being that soul-destroying night gunshots had rung out over Rosslyn.

_Sometimes, just sometimes, I'm glad it wasn't me. Sometimes, I can look at you and wonder if I really wanted to be President at all._

He was caught for a instant in memories of that terrifying moment when the Secret Service had come rushing in. To win the Presidency was an incredible responsibility; to be thrust with zero warning to the head of a country in shock was possibly the most petrifying thing in the world.

And Leo had been there. Oh, Hoynes had been in charge, but nobody was fooled. How could he have made anywhere near the right decisions without the Chief of Staff's advice? Even Bartlet couldn't do that.

Even Bartlet couldn't do that...

"Sir?" he said cautiously, breaking into his leader's brooding thoughts. "Is there... is there something I should know? Is something going on?" They both knew he didn't mean about Leo.

Bartlet's scowl returned. "This is hardly the time for-"

"Dammit, sir, I _need_ to know!" This was no childish whining about being out of the loop; this was for real. "You drop dead in the next four minutes and Leo's not here, how the hell am I supposed to know what to do?"

The President glared at him. "You want to make the decisions? Be my goddamn guest!" There was an awkward silence, and then Bartlet sighed. He bowed his head, suddenly showing every one of the years he had on his Vice President. "What am I going to do, John?" he said, almost in a whisper. "What if he doesn't come back? What am I going to do?"

He looked up, and Hoynes's breath was taken away by the naked pain written across his face. The Vice President met his gaze silently, feeling for the first time the true measure of his leader's worth.

_How strong is he? God above, how_ strong _must this man be?_

The moment was broken as Bartlet's young aide knocked and cautiously entered. "Mr. President?" he said nervously. "General Wilson."

"Thank you, Charlie," he said, sounding tired. He turned to Hoynes, and gave him a brief nod. "Mr. Vice President. We're done here."

* * *

The White House mess seemed unusually deserted. Isaac had the sense that people were scurrying about and working desperately without truly knowing why. The Chief of Staff's absence, even if people didn't know the true reason, had reverberated right the way down to the least significant little cog in the White House machine.

It wasn't his chaos, but he felt it all the same. The secretarial instincts in him were urging him to roll up his sleeves and pitch in, find somebody somewhere who needed a pair of hands to sort files or fetch and carry. He was an assistant; he itched to assist.

Right now, though, he had a more important duty to attend to. From the way Margaret descended upon the coffee and slice of cake he had convinced her to buy, he was guessing she hadn't remembered to feed herself for some time. She was at the end of her emotional tether, becoming bizarrely close to tears over, of all things a raisin muffin.

As they sat together, they talked about nothing in particular. The minutae of being a personal assistant; that seemed safe enough, although he was careful to duck around any of the usual 'my boss drives me crazy' banter. Now was definitely not the time.

"My boss speaks very highly of your Mr. McGarry, you know," he told her.

"He does?" Margaret seemed surprised.

Isaac reflected. "Well," he admitted, "I couldn't tell you if they actually _like_ each other - but my boss certainly has an immense amount of respect for yours."

Margaret processed that. "I'm afraid I can't speak for the reverse," she admitted, pulling a face. "But then, Leo's not in the habit of singing the praises of anybody. Apart from the President."

Isaac nodded over his coffee. The devotion of Leo McGarry to his candidate was well-documented. For a man so taciturn in all other respects, he never seemed to hesitate to display his love for his best friend. Bartlet leaned extremely heavily on his right-hand man; Isaac only hoped nothing serious had happened to him.

"On the other hand," Margaret reflected, out of nowhere. "Leo never gets as annoyed as he does with your boss unless he knows the person who's annoying him is right. Or that's my theory, anyway. But when I try to prove I'm right he gets annoyed."

Isaac gave her a smile. Despite her fragmented and more than slightly batty state, he had become rather fond of Margaret. She was quirky, but in a good way, and her loyalty to her boss was the match of anything the man himself could muster for his President.

He reached over, and squeezed Margaret's hand comfortingly. "I don't know what's going on with your boss, but I'm sure he's gonna be fine."

She offered him a weak smile of thanks, but said "So what you're saying is you're offering me reassurances with no basis in fact?"

"I think I've been in politics too long." He gave her another gentle smile. "But no, I know your boss is gonna be fine. With people like you looking out for him, how could he not be?"

* * *

Isaac and Margaret arrived back outside the Oval Office just as it became flooded with traffic. Charlie was escorting a tall dark-haired man in a military uniform, and the Oval Office door opened as they approached.

Hoynes was the first to emerge, and Isaac was relieved to see his head was still attached to his shoulders. He had his pensive face on, and Isaac couldn't tell what he might be thinking.

The President followed him out, and his expression was just as unreadable. Isaac couldn't tell if they'd been screaming their heads off or sitting drinking coffee with their feet up. _Dammit._ Politicians and their poker faces.

The President moved over to the military gentleman. "General Wilson," he nodded briskly. "If you'd like to come in?"

Isaac noticed his boss watching the General with an odd expression. It was the look he sometimes wore when he was formulating a new strategy... or doing the _Times_ crossword. Things were coming together in the Vice President's mind.

Suddenly he jolted upright in realisation. "Mr. President!" Everybody jerked to a halt and turned to look at him.

Hoynes barely seemed aware that he had an audience. "Mr. President," he said urgently. "I sent Isaac to Leo's apartment building yesterday morning. One of the neighbours told him that Leo was visited by a man in a combat fatigues a few days ago."

The President froze in place, and then pivoted on one foot to look at Isaac. The personal assistant couldn't help cringing, but the look on his face was not angry but... hopeful? He whirled around again, and turned to his young aide.

"Charlie. Get me Ron Butterfield. _Now_."


	11. XI

** XI **

Josh shifted uncomfortably in place. The President had been hustled off the Situation Room before Ron Butterfield could bring back his report, and now the Secret Service man was meeting with Josh and Hoynes instead. Josh wondered if the Vice President shared his uncomfortable impression that they were two sub-standard deputies trying to step into shoes that were too big for them.

Knowing Hoynes, possibly not.

Butterfield's perpetually miserable face was impossible to read. He could be about to tell them that Leo had been found brutally murdered, or that he was alive and well and grumbling about the sub-standard job Josh had been doing in his place. Nothing in his face offered the slightest little hint either way, and Josh's nerves quivered uneasily in his stomach.

The news that a clue had finally been found had been like a caffeine injection to his veins. However, at the same time, a superstitious dread had settled over him. _This is where I find out. This is where I find out Leo's gone. Just like dad. Just like Joanie. Just like everybody..._ He shook himself out of it with an effort.

"Did you find the neighbour?" he asked. Even to his own ears, his voice sounded as arrogantly brisk as ever. Sam might mock his poker face, but there were some things he could keep inside so well no one ever saw them. Except Donna. Donna seemed to have some kind of inexplicable psychic link that told her exactly when he was in desperate need of reassurance. He couldn't decide whether he should be relieved or disturbed by that.

Butterfield nodded.

"And they've been showing her pictures?"

"Yes."

Only the knowledge that the Secret Service man was no doubt well enough trained to pin him against the wall without raising a sweat dissuaded Josh from leaping across the table and strangling him. "_And_?" he demanded.

"Ms. Bannerman hasn't been able to identify the man yet." Josh let out all his breath in a furious rush, and even Hoynes made a wince of dismay. "The facial scar has helped as narrow the search grid considerably," Butterfield continued. "We've ruled out members of associated terrorist groups, and we're going to try other known criminals. However, that could take a little longer-"

"Dammit, 'narrowing the search grid' isn't gonna help!" Josh yelled. "We don't _have_ that kind of time! We need Leo. We need him _here_, and fast!"

"Josh." Hoynes put a restraining hand on his shoulder, and the Deputy Chief of Staff visibily deflated.

He apologised to the Secret Service man with a half-shrug, and waved him away. "Go. Find this guy, and find Leo. Do it now." Whether he actually had the authority to order Butterfield about was questionable, but the Secret Service leader obeyed without hesitation.

Hoynes turned back towards Josh, looking concerned. "Josh, you're totally frazzled. You should-"

"Get back to work," Josh cut him off hurriedly. "Leo's not here. _Somebody's_ gotta run this place." Before the Vice President could react, he left the room and dashed towards his office, yelling loudly for his assistant.

* * *

CJ came to a halt in the communications bullpen. "Where's Josh?" she asked, waving a piece of paper in the air. "I need him on this."

"Join the queue," said Sam, rubbing his eyes tiredly as he tried to focus on his writing. "He's in like, three meetings at once right now, and there's at least four other people looking for him."

CJ pulled a face, and sat down on the desk beside him. "This isn't easy for him, is it?" she sighed.

"No. You and Toby aren't exactly helping, either," Sam pointed out, in as close as he got to an accusing tone.

"I know, I know," CJ admitted. "It's just..."

"Feels weird," Sam agreed.

"Yeah. And... wrong. Like we're replacing Leo." She looked at Sam earnestly. "We can't... He's Leo. We can't just... do stuff without him."

"I know that," Sam agreed. He gave her a pointed look. "Josh knows that too. He knows that better than any of us. He's doing both their jobs at the same time, and he isn't having fun."

"Yeah, yeah." CJ sighed, swinging her legs. "But he's not making it easier his end, either. _I_ don't wanna fight him. _He_ wants to fight the world."

"He's scared," said Sam quietly.

"Yeah." CJ was silent for a moment. "Are you?" she asked suddenly.

Sam stopped writing, and looked up at her. "Are you?" he asked in return.

"You first."

He paused. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm kinda scared. And why did I have to go first?"

"'Cause I'm the girl. If I'm scared and you're not, then it's girly or something." She hugged herself uneasily. "But yeah. I'm scared too."

The bullpen was empty as the various assistants charged about the Wing on urgent missions, but even so Sam scooted his chair closer to CJ and lowered his voice as he spoke. "This guy the neighbour saw... what do you think? Do you think it's got something to do with Qumar?"

CJ grimaced. "I don't know." Neither of them wanted to voice aloud the thought that if Qumari terrorists had Leo, the odds of him being returned unharmed were pretty small. She hesitated for a moment. "Nobody's told me anything about Qumar. I know with the whole- with the military and everything, but... Sam, nobody's told me anything about Qumar."

"Nobody knows anything," Sam told her. "The President's in the Sit. Room all the time, but he hasn't said anything to anybody. Not even Josh."

"Really?" CJ looked shocked, and concerned. "If it's that bad... Jesus, how's the President doing this without Leo?"

"I don't know," Sam admitted. Everybody knew the President leaned heavily on his Chief of Staff in all things military.

CJ remembered her piece of paper, and dropped down from the desk. "I have to go find Josh." Sam shot her a soulful look, but she could only shrug at him. "Believe me, the last thing I want to do is dump more work on him. But he has the authority, and right now he's the only one round here who does."

"I beg to differ." They both spun round in surprise, to see Vice President Hoynes standing in the doorway.

"It seems like you people could use a hand here," he observed. He turned, and called down the corridor. "Isaac!"

The Vice President's neatly turned-out aide came running. "Sir?"

"Cancel my appointments for the day. And see if you can find me an office somewhere." He turned back towards the others. "I'm the Vice President of this country. I think it's about time you people let me take a hand in running it."

* * *

It was hard to think in the dark. As fast as the ideas came to him, they would slip away again. He didn't know how long he'd been trapped here, but even his too-often-neglected stomach was complaining. He was too old to go this long without eating. He wished he had Margaret here, to cluck over the state he was in and bully him into looking after himself.

Scratch that. He wished he had Margaret, a desk lamp and some work to do. Then he wouldn't even notice his imprisonment at all.

He wanted a drink. It frightened him how strong the craving was, here in the dark with nothing to distract him. At home, if the need ever came upon him in the night, he could simply crawl out of bed and slave over his files until he was too tired to want anything. Now, though, he wasn't sure if he could still tell the difference between waking and sleeping.

Exactly how he'd ended up here was foggy. It always felt a wrench to leave the White House with jobs still unfinished, and his mind lingered there as he made the quiet, solitary walk to his apartment. He hadn't noticed anything out of the ordinary, but then he hadn't even been looking.

He'd always scoffed at the way Margaret fussed over his walking, secure in the confidence that his long-ago military training would take care of any would-be muggers. It seemed, however, that the very most basic element of that training had long since deserted him. _Stay alert._

_Fine job you made of that, McGarry._

The itch to be at his work was almost as strong as the desire for a drink. He wondered what would happen to him when their all-too brief time in the White House was finally over. What would he do? Retire? Forty-eight hours at home with nothing to do, and he'd be crawling back into his bottle.

Of course, it was looking increasingly unlikely that he was ever getting out of this trailer, let alone the White House. He was in no condition to tackle a big man with a rifle, never mind run away if he somehow succeeded.

Even as he thought it, the sound of someone at the door entered his consciousness. Ready for it now, he squinted his eyes to cut out as much of the light as he could. Despite his precautions, he was momentarily blinded.

"Still alive?" said that maddeningly familiar voice. "Of course you are. It takes more than a few days in the dark to kill a man. And I should know. Oh, I should know."

Leo blinked his eyes furiously. _Focus, focus, dammit, focus._ Maybe while he was wishing for a mini-office inside his prison, he should add his glasses to that list.

His captor seemed intent on rambling on. "It's about time you learned. It's about time you paid. You thought you'd got away with it, didn't you? Thought nobody knew. Nobody remembered. Well, you were wrong. I was there. I know what you did."

Slowly, very slowly, the silhouetted figure came back into view. Something about the set of his shoulders, and that _voice_...

It took a moment for the memory to surface, as he dredged through the waste of times best forgotten. When it finally clicked, he jolted upright in complete amazement.

"Trace?" he exclaimed, in utter disbelief.


	12. XII

** XII **

Jed had never been particularly fond of the military, US or otherwise, and things hadn't improved considerably after they were placed under his command. At this current moment, faced with the cream of the country's crop, he was giving serious consideration to the question of why he hadn't stayed an economics professor.

He didn't _want_ to be down here, deciding the fate of the world. Maybe that kind of power gave some people thrills, but all it gave him was a crushing headache. He wanted to be back in the Oval, bossing around the Secret Service, demanding the very latest news about Leo.

"Mr. President?"

_Go away._

Jed forced himself to try and concentrate on the matter at hand. Considering the matter at hand involved the possible sparking of a huge war in the Middle East, he was a little troubled by the fact that he found it very difficult.

"Mr. President, you _have_ to give the order," Baker warned him. "One way or the other, we have less than twenty-four hours to make a decision."

That was all very well for him to say, but the two nightmare days that had already passed had brought Jed no closer to a solution.

Send the troops in. Replace one dictatorship with another. Shed bucketloads of civillian blood. Cause a war by intervening against the 'legitimate' government.

_Don't_ send the troops in. Let the government and the rebels massacre each other. Shed bucketloads of civillian blood. Face accusations of tacitly supporting the current oppressive regime.

His military 'advisors' seemed to be under the impression that repeating the same things over and over again in different words would somehow make one option more attractive than the other. But the fact was, there was no attraction to be had on either side. The second he committed to one course or the other, he was signing a few thousand death warrants.

In less than a single day, everything was going down in Qumar. The rebels would be making their move, with or without US military support. But the 'freedom' they were fighting for was just a different brand of oppression to the one currently on offer.

Jed was heartily sick of the circling arguments. Literally; there was a heaving, acidic sensation in his chest as if any moment now he might bring up his last meal. He had to get out of here.

Jed pushed to his feet, and the assembled men all scrambled to theirs. "Mr. President-" one of them began. He couldn't even remember which; they were all beginning to blur together into one big argumentative blob.

"You said I still have twenty-four hours to make the call," he reminded them sharply.

"Less than that, sir," Baker corrected. Jed glared at him.

"However much time I've got, I'm taking it. The people of Qumar deserve a little consideration before I make the decision to destroy their lives, don't you think?" He looked to Baker. "You'll have your answer before the deadline. One way or the other."

He turned, and swept out of the Situation Room.

Thinking to himself _Please, please,_ please _ just find me Leo before the deadline's past..._

* * *

Jenny wondered to herself what she was doing here, in this building she had never visited before in her life. What good could she possibly do, when anybody who could find anything useful here had been and gone?

Even so, she had a burning need to step inside. To see for herself this place that Leo had been calling home.

_Does he call it 'home'? Is this 'home' now? Or does he still think of the old house? Does he sometimes head towards it then remember?_ Did he, like her, absently put aside newspaper articles and bookmark pages, thinking to share them with the other half who wasn't there anymore?

_You make it sound like he's_ dead _or something,_ she always thought fiercely, but right now that thought rang spectacularly hollow. He _could_ be dead. If she'd hung in there just a little longer, he wouldn't have been here at all...

Her hand flew almost instinctively to the old, cracked photograph in her breast pocket. She felt weak and childish for turning back to that old superstition, and yet it was the first thing she had done after receiving that stilted, awkward phonecall from Jed Bartlet; charged upstairs and rummaged through her boxes until she found it, that exact picture he'd sent to her so long ago.

_As long as I carry it, he'll come back to me. He told me so. He told me so._

She stepped off the elevator, and wondered anew why she was here. She didn't even have a key. _Stupid girl, why did you come here when you don't even have a key?_ All the doors along this corridor looked the same; blank, featureless, giving no clue as to what lay behind. What lay behind Leo's? Had he personalised it? Kept photographs; of her, of Mallory, even of his beloved Jed? Or had he kept it his new home as plain and neutral as a hotel room?

As she stood there in the hallway, not sure whether to laugh or cry at herself, one of the doors to her left swung open. A small, elderly lady in large glasses peered out, and gave her a brief smile.

"Oh, I'm sorry, dear. I thought you were the government men coming back." She took in the way Jenny was standing in the middle of the hall, looking lost, and added "Are you looking for somebody, dearie?"

"I- no, I-" Jenny broke off, shaking her head. Then the woman's words penetrated, and she stared at the old lady. "I'm sorry, did you say government men?"

The woman nodded. "Oh, yes. They were here most of the morning, showing me pictures, asking questions. Nice boys. Very conscientious."

"Questions-?" Jenny gestured towards Leo's door. "Is this about-?"

"Poor Mr. McGarry, yes." The woman nudged her glasses up and regarded Jenny with sharp eyes. "I'm sorry, are you a friend of his?"

"I'm his wife." _Oops._ If she was talking to a therapist, they'd no doubt have plenty to say about _that_ little slip-up. "His ex-wife," she corrected herself.

The little old lady's face crinkled up in sympathy. "Oh, my poor dear. Won't you come in? Have some tea or coffee? You shouldn't be out here on your own."

Much to her surprise, Jenny found herself accepting. She needed someone to talk to, and the options were pretty limited. The oldest friend she kept in touch with was Abbey, and as the First Lady and Jed's pillar of support, she certainly had bigger things to worry about right now. The only friends she and Leo had shared were political friends, and they were all rushed off their feet right now.

Besides, she couldn't help a stab of curiosity about how Leo had lived since she'd been forced to leave him. She knew without a doubt he hadn't stopped working himself too hard; had he ever come home at all, once there was nobody there to come home to?

Leo's motherly neighbour fussed over her incredibly, fixing her a drink and insisting she take something to eat and not taking no for an answer. Truth to tell, Jenny was grateful for it; she didn't remember when she'd last sat down to eat, and she felt a little faint.

She sipped her drink, and said awkwardly "Um; did you know my husband, then?" She noticed the way the word 'ex' had slipped out of the conversation, and thought rebelliously _Why the hell not? It's not like I've got myself a new husband yet._ Or, judging by how things had gone with Michael, that she ever would.

The neighbour, who'd introduced herself as Elsie Bannerman, clucked sadly. "Not as much as I'd like," she said. "He was always very polite; lovely, lovely man. A real old-fashioned gentleman. Not home often, though."

Jenny couldn't help smiling into her coffee-cup. "Yes. Yes, that's rather exactly what I thought."

Elsie gave her a surprisingly sharp glance. "You miss him," she observed, not as a question.

"Yes," she admitted. "In the little things." She didn't need to elaborate, for the old woman was nodding.

"My Henry passed away three years back. I get along, but..." she sighed. "He used to kick this coffee table over. His eyesight wasn't what it was, bless him, and it seemed like every day he'd manage to kick the thing over. He'd always put it back, but he could never remember where it was supposed to go." She looked down into her cup. "Now, every day when I come into the room, the coffee table's right where it's supposed to be." They sat in silence for a moment, bonding over all the little things that had been irritating once and now were just... missing.

"It's- it's stupid," Jenny said finally. "I haven't seen him for _months_, and yet... Now it's worse. Even though I never went to see him, now I don't know where he is it's worse."

"They'll bring him back for you," Elsie reassured her. "They were bright boys, the ones I talked to. Conscientious. They'll find your husband for you."

"I hope so," Jenny sighed. "I want to believe it, but..." She hesitated, and then touched her breast pocket. "I... you know what I did, the other day? I went through all my old things and found an old photo he sent me. He sent it to me when he went off to fly in the war. He said I should carry it as a promise he'd come back." She smiled, though the expression was painfully fragile. "I carried it in my pocket every day, and... he did, he came back to me. And the other day, I went and found that photo, and now I'm carrying it again."

She looked to Elsie, expecting some reaction to the stupidly superstitious story, but the old woman only nodded compassionately, and said "It's funny. I can't imagine your Mr. McGarry as a young man. He always seems so... not old, but... weary. A very weary man."

Jenny nodded. She knew what the old woman meant; she had witnessed it long enough herself. Leo wore the world on his shoulders; he had done so from the earliest she knew him, even as barely more than a boy, but it had become a thousand times worse when he came back from the war.

_What did they do to you out there, my Leo? What did you see, that hurt you so much?_

She pulled the photograph out of her pocket, and held it out to Elsie. It had been taken at some time during their training, a group of young men with awkward haircuts and strained smiles. Leo was in the front, looking very small and young compared to all the other men. Boys. They were all just boys, really.

Elsie looked where she pointed at Leo, and nodded. Then she frowned. "That's him," she said suddenly.

"Who?" asked Jenny. Elsie tapped a figure on the end of the row.

"Him. The man with the scar I saw visit your husband. The one that the men from the government wanted to know about."

"What?" Jenny grabbed the photo from her, and stared. She knew the names of all these men, had memorised them in the days when all she had of Leo was a pitifully small bundle of letters that said almost nothing. "You saw this man? Here?"

"Yes, dear. Is he someone you know?"

"No, I- Leo used to talk about him. He- he was supposed to have died! Leo was really broken up about it; they used to fly together. His name was Robert Trachtenberg, but they used to call him-"

* * *

"-Trace?"

Leo couldn't believe it. It wasn't possible. He'd seen Trace shot down, seen his plane crash and burn. _You died, you_ died, _I know you died, I_ saw _you._

"You remember me." The harsh laugh was like nothing he remembered from those long ago days. The voice was the same, but sharp, brutal, devoid of the playful boyishness it had once held. "The high and mighty Leo McGarry remembers me. Well, what do you know?"

"You- you were shot down," said Leo weakly. "I saw you shot down!"

"Yes!" The shouted answer was painfully loud after his hours in the silence. "You _saw_ it! You saw me shot down! And you _left_ me there."

"Trace, I-" He felt sick. Sick to his stomach. _Oh God, he wasn't dead, I thought he was dead, I swear I thought he was dead-_ "Your plane was _burning_! I saw it burn!"

"Yes, it burned! It burned, and so did I!" The ex-pilot yanked open his shirt, and even in the dimness Leo could see the unnaturally shiny flesh of a healed-over burn. If there was ever a time to try and wrench the rifle from his hands, it was now, but he could only look away.

"I burned, and I waited," said Trace, dangerously quiet. "I waited, and I waited, because I knew my good friend Leo would come back for me." He spat. "My _good friend Leo_. But you didn't, did you? You left me there. Left me there for _them_ to find."

Leo was shaking his head; unable to take it in, not wanting to take it in. "I thought you were dead. Trace, I thought you were dead." He could smell the recycled air of his cockpit, see the fighter plane crashing into the trees in flames. _Oh God, he survived that, no one should ever have survived that..._ "I swear to God, I thought you were dead..."

"Quiet!" The rifle butt struck him across the face again, but he didn't even care. _Go on, hit me. I deserve it. I left you, oh God, I left you. I didn't_ know.

"Trace," he said painfully. "Please, believe me. I didn't know. Let me... let me help you, Trace. I can-" His only reply was another brutal swipe of the rifle butt.

"I'm not listening, McGarry," Trace spat. "I'm not listening to your _lies_. You think I'm ever going to trust you? You _left_ me. You left me to die!"

With that he once again stormed out, slamming the door so violently it shook the entire trailer. Leo was left alone in the dark, wondering if he would ever escape... and if, after what he'd just found out, he even deserved to.


	13. XIII

** XIII **

"Well? What have you got for me?" Jed leaned forward in his chair, a welcome flicker of his old vitality returning to him.

Ron Butterfield handed a folder to him, and copies to Josh and Hoynes. The rest of the senior staff crowded around to peer over their shoulders.

Jed flipped open the file folder, and found himself looking at a large black and white photo of a man with a long, jagged scar on his cheek. The military buzz-cut his hair was in was close enough to a skinhead to bring back unpleasant associations, and there was a troubling blankness to his eyes.

"Robert Alan Trachtenberg," Ron supplied. "Also called Trace. Fifty-six years old. Recently released from Springdale Psychiatric Hospital. He was shot down over Vietnam during his military service, and suffered severe torture upon being captured. After his return he suffered from psychotic episodes, and spent time in numerous mental facilities. His doctors noted he had become obsessed with the way his squad had abandoned him after he was shot down."

"And they let him out?" raged Josh disbelievingly. Jed put him down with a cool look.

"We can discuss the culpability of this country's mental healthy facilities at a later date. But before we worry about that barn door, let's try and catch the horse. Ron, what do we have on this Trachtenberg's current whereabouts?"

Butterfield looked as close as he ever got to uncomfortable. "The address he was using turned out to be a fake, and he missed the last two meetings he was supposed to have with his psychotherapist. We're co-ordinating with local police and checking out a few leads, but-"

"I don't want to hear it," Jed told him, shaking his head. "Just find him. Now."

"Yes, sir." Butterfield left the room, and Jed turned to his agitated staff. "The rest of you, get back to your jobs. You'll hear as soon as there's news." They all looked ready to protest, but did as he ordered.

"Charlie!" he called. His body man came running. "Cancel my next meeting, would you?" He got up awkwardly from behind his desk, his legs too stiff for his liking. "I need to see my wife."

* * *

Abbey found herself wandering the corridors of the West Wing vaguely. It was late, but the place was even more a hive of activity than usual. She didn't think anybody would be going home tonight.

She would have to go 'home' soon enough; return to the residence, and Jed. It pained her to see him like this, so torn up inside, and know that no comfort she could offer him would be enough.

A light was on in an unfamiliar office, and as she glanced in curiously she saw John Hoynes, poring over some document or other and rubbing his forehead. She would have gone on without troubling him, but some change in the light level must have alerted him. He looked up, and sprang quickly to his feet.

"Dr. Bartlet," he said, with a nod. Normally she would be secretly delighted with somebody using her proper title, but today she was far too tired to care. Let them call her whatever they liked. She didn't care what anybody said to her today, provided _one_ of them said that Leo had been found, safe and well.

"You seem to have moved in," she observed. Automatic small-talk, wouldn't mother be proud? Her mother had always maintained that a lady should be polite and gracious at all times. She would have been delighted to see her Abigail the toast of society as the First Lady... and horrified by the playful and not-so-playful arguments she frequently had with Jed and his closest allies.

Her usual appetite for a good old knock-down fight had shrivelled and died, even facing a man like John Hoynes. It was hard to tell how she felt about Hoynes; part of her rankled at the way he opposed her husband on so many things, whilst another, more treacherous part whispered how much better things might have been for her family if he'd only won.

_You were supposed to_ win, _didn't you know that? My Jed was supposed to run against you and do surprisingly well but still come second, and then we could have gone home and got back to normal and talked about how close he'd come to being President..._

She wasn't sure when in the campaign it had hit her that Jed was going to win. It hadn't been a gradual thing. His chances had seemed as slim as ever, and then the next minute she'd seen him up there at his podium, ruling the crowd, and thought to herself _My God, he's going to win._ And from that moment to the day he was elected President, it had all seemed pre-ordained.

Despite everything, despite the deal he'd gone back on and her crushing fears for his future health, she knew in her heart that Jed Bartlet and the Presidency were a union made in heaven. Days like this, however, it became harder and harder to remember why that was a good thing.

Hoynes seemed to find it as awkward relating to her as she did to him. What did they have in common, apart from the fact that they'd been the only ones who knew Jed Bartlet was supposed to have been a one-term President? Hoynes had acquiesced to the change in plans fairly gracefully, she had to give him that. Not that he'd really had much of a choice.

Of course, if Leo didn't come back alive, he might well find himself President sooner than he'd expected. Abbey knew, perhaps better than anyone else, how tenuous the threads holding her husband together truly were. She herself was one of them, and she was terrified that any moment now she might snap under the pressure.

"I know... this must be a difficult time for you," the Vice President said awkwardly. Abbey thought to herself sometimes that Hoynes didn't seem altogether comfortable around people. That was what had lost him the leadership race, perhaps more so than anything of his politics or his beliefs; he was a good enough man, a good enough politician, but he didn't have the powerful halo of charisma that seemed to glow around her Jed.

That was what Jed was in danger of losing. His halo, his glow, the thing that made people straighten up in his presence and believe in a power of politics they thought they'd forgotten.

The administration was a beast with many heads and many voices; some of the finest brains in the country worked in this very wing, often unobserved behind the scenes. But over and behind and through it all was Jed; not just the head of the government, but its very soul. If the light of that soul winked out, then what was left? Nothing worth saving.

And what was Hoynes, in this governmental body? Some overshadowed, thankless organ like the spleen; quietly chugging away in the background, ignored until it was suddenly realised it was needed.

The Vice President shuffled his feet, disconcerted by the lingering silence. Abigail Bartlet was not best known for her silences. "How is he?" he asked awkwardly.

"Suffering," Abbey answered shortly, painfully. What else was there to say?

"It can't be easy, having to support him through this," said Hoynes, and his awkward brand of sympathy somehow cut more deeply than any more polished words. "I know how close he and Leo are. The President-"

"Dammit, John, he's my friend too!" The words were torn out of her almost unwittingly, the words that she hadn't been able to scream at Jed no matter how much she wanted to. She lowered her eyes, unable to hold back the tears that were forcing their way to the surface. "He's my friend too," she said brokenly. And suddenly she found herself crying on the shoulder of a man she really hardly knew at all, crying for herself and her old friend because she couldn't let those tears fall in front of the husband who needed her so desperately.

* * *

Sam threaded his way through the crowd in the bar. There she was, at last, sitting on a stool at the bar and nursing a glass of clear liquid. He didn't know what it was, but he was willing to bet it wasn't water.

Sam moved over to her side, and watched her with some concern. "Mallory?" he said gently. She turned to look at him, the glass in her hand wobbling somewhat.

"Sam," she said, not sounding terribly surprised.

"I think you're a little drunk," he said without accusation, slipping in beside her.

"I know," she agreed.

He gently prised the glass from her fingers. "I don't think your dad would like to see you drinking." She let him take the glass without resistance.

For a moment they just sat there. Then she shook her head, and said "I just feel, so, so, so-"

"Helpless?" supplied Sam.

"Thank you, Mr. Speechwriter. Yes. Helpless. Frustrated. Useless. Not to mention pissed off." She looked up at him, suddenly. "You should call your dad."

Sam was caught off-guard by the abrupt swing in topic. "I, um, we don't-"

"You should talk to him," she insisted, slurring a little on the 'sh' sound. "You shouldn't let things fester. Mustn't let them fester. 'Cause if you do, one day you're gonna wake up and find it's too late."

"It's not too late," he said gently, taking her hand. She looked up at him, seeming almost childish in that moment in her desire to believe him.

"It's not too late?"

"It's not." He pulled her up from her stool, and hugged her briefly against his chest. "I promise. Come with me."

"Where are we going?" she asked uncertainly, glancing back at her abandoned drink sitting on the bar-top.

"Back to the White House. The others will be there. We can wait together."

* * *

Jenny couldn't help an irrational stab of relief as she saw Sam guide Mallory into the room. She knew, intellectually, that there had been no reason to fear for her daughter's safety, but that knowledge was no match for the icy feeling in her gut.

Nobody had actually come out and suggested that the area outside the Oval Office become an informal crash-pad for the people who lingered here, but somehow it had happened anyway. She suspected Donna had been behind the couches that had mysteriously appeared here. It was probably breaking some White House rule or other, but right now nobody cared.

Donnatella Moss had seemed like a fragile little thing when Jenny had first met her on the campaign, and she had wondered how such a quiet girl could possibly cope with Noah Lyman's boisterous son. But Donna had proved her wrong; there was steel behind that pale skin and puppy-dog expression.

Right now, she sat perched on the arm of one of the couches beside her boss. They talked quietly, barely touching, and yet Jenny could feel the warmth flowing between them like some kind of secret hug.

Josh. She still had a soft spot for the son of her husband's dear old friend. Poor Josh, so like his father, and so scarred by tragedy. When she'd heard of his injuries after the shooting, her first instinct had been to rush down there and mother him until his own mother could be there. But she had held herself back, feeling somehow that it was no longer her place. Josh belonged fully to Leo, now; he was part of the world she'd given up claim to when she divorced him.

Sam and her daughter settled onto the other end of that same couch, Mallory snuggling closer to his chest as he gently stroked her hair. He _was_ a good boy, that Sam Seaborn, for all the chaos he seemed to get himself into. She was just glad her Mallory had him to lean on.

In fact, it seemed like everybody had somebody to lean on. CJ and Toby were huddled close together, talking in low voices, and Margaret seemed to have found a kindred spirit in Hoynes's assistant, Isaac. He seemed like a nice enough young man, very earnest; she wondered if there was something deeper going on there. Lord knew Margaret was over-due a social life; Jenny was constantly horrified at the way her husband worked the poor girl to death, though in truth she seemed to thrive on it.

_Just please, let him come back to work her to death a few more times._

Somewhere, she knew, the country's Chief Executive and her old childhood friend were sequestered together; perhaps the First Couple could have drawn some comfort from this little gathering, but even now they had a part to play and a place to be.

Still, at least they were together in their solititude. Everybody had somebody... everybody except her. Jenny looked around at all the private little comfort zones that surrounded her, and felt more alone than ever.


	14. XIV

** XIV **

"Mr. President!" The assembled staff and family jolted awake with a collective start as Ron Butterfield charged towards the Oval Office.

"Ron!" There was no trace of the President's usual reluctance to rise _this_ particular morning. "What have you got for me?"

Perhaps it was contrary to protocol so many extraneous bodies to cram into the Oval Office, but cram they did. Butterfield, with perfect Secret Service composure, looked only to the President.

"Mr. President, we have a possible location." Everybody seemed to breath out at once.

"Quiet!" snapped the President with a school-teacherly air, although no one would have _dared_ to speak for fear of missing Ron's words.

Perhaps the Secret Service leader was conscious that the people around him probably didn't have security clearance for such information, but he was smart enough to read the President's unspoken permission. "Mr. President, we've located a residence out of town that belonged to Trachtenberg's aunt. We have reason to believe Mr. McGarry is being held either in the house or the grounds there."

"And your men-?"

"On their way, Mr. President." He touched the ever-present Secret Service radiolink. "You'll know as soon as they're in position."

"Make it happen," said the President, with a sharp nod.

* * *

Leo was slammed out of a tentative doze by the door rebounding. Were Trace's visits getting closer together? He couldn't tell. The light outside was dim, but was it early morning or late evening?

The scarred ex-pilot stepped inside, rifle in hand. Today, though, he didn't seem content to swipe Leo about the head with it. Instead, he raised it as if in preparation to fire.

"Trace!" Leo scrambled urgently up into a sitting position. If the trigger was pulled, there was no way the shot could miss him. For just a brief second, the memory of a gunshot echoed in his mind. His father, pulling the trigger in his own mouth out in the garage. Then, as a trembling teenage boy, Leo had gone down with his mother to see what was to be seen.

Now, four decades later, who would come to find or identify the body of Leo McGarry?

"Trace!" he said again, urgently. Perhaps his long-ago friend's dementia could work to his advantage. He was clearly a long way from his right mind, and if he had come here with murder in his thoughts, Leo might still distract him from his purpose. "Trace, please, listen for a-"

"Quiet!" he shouted, sounding barely controlled. The rifle was still raised, but his hands were shaking.

"Trace. Robert." He fought for some reason, some excuse that he might accept. "You can't, you can't shoot me... They might hear you."

He himself had no idea who he meant when he said 'they', but the phrase seemed to electrify Trace. He whipped his head around urgently. "No. You're lying. You're _lying_. They're not here!"

Leo seized on what little leverage he'd found. "They're everywhere," he said softly, thinking Trace must be flashing back to the time when he'd been captured. Whatever had been done to him before he was returned to US shores, it couldn't have been pleasant.

Trace seemed uncertain, allowing the rifle to point towards the floor of the trailer. Leo wanted to let out a huge breath of relief, but he didn't dare. "I told them," he said quietly. "I told the doctors, but they didn't believe me. They're _following_ me. They're everywhere."

"I know, I know," said Leo soothingly. He reached back in his memory for the days when Mallory had been just a tiny baby, when the wonder at this little life he'd created had been enough to stave off even the nightmares and the alcohol for a while. He doubted Trace was truly comprehending much more of his words than his little baby daughter could have, but the tone of voice could be everything. "I believe you," he said quietly.

"You believe me?" For an instant, all seemed frozen as Trace contemplated that with wonder in his voice. Then, sudden as a nervous twitch, he jerked the gun back up to point at Leo's chest.

"You don't believe me!" he snarled. "You're a liar! And this is all your fault. This is all your fault!"

Leo closed his eyes in the dark, and tried to remember how to pray. One wrong move could destroy it all.

"Trace," he tried again. "Trace, you have to listen to me..."

* * *

Butterfield touched the earpiece at the side of his head for a moment, and everybody in the Oval forgot how to breathe.

"Sir, our agents are moving into place," he reported.

"Well?" demanded Jed urgently. "What do they see?"

Another endless pause as the agent listened to voices they couldn't hear. "There's some kind of trailer in the grounds of the house. Our agents report movement in the area; they think that's where Trachtenberg is holding Mr. McGarry. We have reason to believe that he's armed."

"He's in there with him?" demanded Josh, eyes wide. They all felt the icy grip of terror as they contemplated Leo alone in a tiny trailer with a madman.

"Are your men in position?" snapped the President brusquely, to cover his own sudden fears. Beside him, Abbey reached out and lightly touched his hand. The blaze of love he felt just then should by rights have set the room on fire.

Butterfield hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "Well?" demanded Jed impatiently.

"We're awaiting your orders, sir. Do we go in now, or wait for Trachenberg to emerge?"

The entire universe suddenly shrank down to the size of the Oval Office. Jed was aware of the entire weight of his Presidency bearing down on him. _Move, or wait?_

If the Secret Service stormed the trailer, they could get Leo killed. But if they waited, and this was the moment Trachtenberg had chosen to pull the trigger...

Jed looked across the table at Josh. The Deputy Chief of Staff had his eyes closed, and his lips were moving; Jed couldn't tell if it was a prayer or a plea for his leader to make the right decision. Lines of protocol momentarily disregarded, Donna was tightly clutching his hand in both of her own.

Beside Josh, Sam and CJ and then Toby all met his eyes. Though Sam and CJ wore their emotions more openly, he could read the same thing in all of their faces. Trust. Trust that he would make the right decision. Even Hoynes gave him a respectful nod as Jed's gaze glided over him.

He looked to Margaret, her knuckles white as she clutched the arm of Hoynes's assistant. The young man, Isaac, looked deeply concerned, but amazingly enough Margaret managed to give the President a watery smile and a weak nod. _She's strong as steel, under it all... but then, we should have known that._

Then, most painfully, his gaze settled on Jenny and Mallory. They clung to each other so tightly it must hurt, but as he looked to them they both nodded.

Last of all, his eyes fell on Abbey at his side. The love he saw glowing in her eyes was enough to fill him with all the strength he needed.

He turned back to Ron Butterfield. If he sent them in, he could kill his best friend. If he didn't send them in, he could be standing by when his best friend was killed. The decision was his.

He made it.

"Ron. Send them in."

* * *

Trace's head suddenly snapped up, like a hunting dog. "They're here!"

For a second Leo thought his captor's insanity had reached a whole new level. Then, suddenly, he was being yanked off his feet, the rifle barrel pressing into his neck. Trace dragged him out of the trailer, and as he fought to see against the unaccustomed sunlight he saw the ring of armed men surrounding them.

"Drop your weapon, Trachtenberg!" shouted an unnaturally loud voice. Leo couldn't tell if it was boosted by a loudhailer or just his echoing in his neglected hearing. "Put the rifle down, and step away from Mr. McGarry. _Put the rifle down._"

As the shouting continued, Leo felt Trace's grip tighten on him painfully. If it was doing that on his shoulder, what was it doing to the rifle trigger...?

In his weakened, disoriented state, the shouting was merging into one meaningless blur, making his head spin. So what was it doing to Trace?

Leo sucked in one huge breath of air, and bellowed "Shut up!" Mercifully, the Secret Service men fell silent.

For a couple of heartbeats, nothing happened. Leo could hear Trace's breathing, heavy and laboured, right against his ear.

"Trace," he said softly. "Trace, it's time to let go. Let me go. Put the rifle down on the ground, and let go." He kept on talking in that same gentle, soothing voice, and took a moment to thank the universe for the low, gravelly tones he'd always been blessed with.

_Please, Trace, please. Listen to me. Just for a moment, just listen to me._

Slowly, very slowly, Trace's grip on him started to loosen.

"Now, all these gentlemen here are going to lower their guns," Leo continued. "And then you're going to lower yours, okay?"

The Secret Service men didn't move, until Leo fixed them with a glare. _Do it_, he mouthed. None of them looked happy, but slowly they lowered their weapons to point at the ground. He felt Trace's body relax further against him.

"Okay. It's okay, see? It's all gonna be okay. Now let go of me. Can you do that? Let go of me, and step away. It'll be okay, if you just let go of me and step away."

All too slowly, Trace began to pull away from him. He took one step backwards, and another. The rifle was still pointed at his prisoner, but as Leo held his gaze evenly, Trace gradually began to lower it, until it was held limply in one hand. Leo allowed himself to breathe out, and take a single, gentle step backwards. "Okay," he repeated. "It's okay."

Trace's grip on the rifle started to loosen, and as it did so, his other hand sought his chest, ducking inside his shirt. Leo recognised the gesture for what it was; instinctively feeling for the photograph of his girl that he'd carried all through the war, though Leo doubted that the picture was even there any more.

Leo recognised the gesture; the Secret Service didn't. As a half dozen sniper rifles suddenly snapped back up into position, Trace flinched as if he'd been struck and whipped his own weapon back up.

"Wait!" Before Leo could even yell at them to stop, his words were drowned in a hail of gunfire.


	15. Epilogue

** Epilogue **

The strident bleeping of his cellphone disturbed the silence of the cemetery. It hardly mattered; there was nobody to hear. It had been a quiet, simple funeral. He had been the only one to attend.

Leo snapped the phone open and held it to his ear. The warm tones of his truest friend crackled through the speaker.

"Leo."

"Checking up on me, Mr. President?" he asked, with a flicker of a smile.

"Hell, yes. As I will be for the foreseeable future."

"I don't plan on making a habit of this," Leo told him.

"See that you don't. Is the funeral over?"

Leo nodded, although his friend couldn't see him. "Yeah. Nobody came," he added quietly. For a moment the President was silent.

"I kept the press away, like you asked," he said.

"Yes, but-" Leo could only shrug. "He was... he was a veteran. There should have been something."

"He tried to kill you, Leo," the President reminded him softly.

"I know," Leo sighed. "But he didn't... he shouldn't have died."

"Nothing that happened to Robert Trachtenberg ever should have," Jed observed.

"Yeah." Leo looked sadly at the plain, simple gravestone. "They got the dates wrong, you know?"

"Pardon?"

"On this stone. They said he died this year; he didn't. He might have come back, but my friend Trace Trachtenberg died over there in Vietnam."

"Yes." For a moment Jed was silent. "The papers say I did the right thing, Leo." Leo knew that now he wasn't talking about the kidnapping, but about Qumar.

"You did, Mr. President."

"People _died_, Leo."

"People would have died either way, Mr. President."

The President laughed, sharply, without humour. "Damned if you do..." he said softly. "If I'd sent those troops-"

"If you'd sent those troops, Mr. President, nothing would have gone differently," Leo cut him off quickly. "Except that it would be our people dying as well as theirs."

"And 'our' people are worth more than theirs?" demanded the President, though all the harshness in his voice was directed at himself.

"No. No. But sometimes..." Leo looked down at the gravestone before him. "Sometimes, you've gotta learn when to leave well enough alone. Sometimes, the only thing you can do by stepping in is make things worse. You did right, Mr. President. You did good."

"Yeah." But Leo could hear the uncertainty in his voice, and the silence dragged on. He hesitated... then took it in his own hands the only way he knew how.

"Jed." He let the name hang between them for just long enough. "You did good."

"Okay. Okay." And for that instant, at least, the President believed it. For a moment they stood, sharing the silence but not wanting to hang up.

"I should be getting back to the office," Leo said finally. The President chuckled.

"Leo, another few hours off work wouldn't kill you. We've already proved that we can manage without you."

"Yeah. I leave you alone another few minutes, you'll have Margaret making executive decisions."

He could see the President's boyish grin even from this pokey little churchyard however many miles away. "Yeah. She's getting kinda of fond of Hoynes's boy Isaac, you know that?"

"Oh, I know." He smiled quietly to himself. "This does not bode well for my appointment book."

The President chuckled. Then, abruptly serious, he said "We've got good people here, Leo. Good people."

"Yeah. Yeah, we do." They said their goodbyes, and hung up.

For a moment, Leo stood looking at the grave. Then he glanced back towards the car, where Jenny and Mallory waited for him. For just a moment, if he blanked his mind, he could almost believe they were a family again. For just a moment.

But really, what else did you have but moments?

Leo turned his back on the grave, and walked towards the car.

**End**


End file.
